


Sweet Nightmares, Bitter Daydreams

by ThatDarnLakeSiren



Series: Jack of All Trades, Master of None [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: (Like at least thirty for Wilson alone), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Fuck tags are difficult to figure out, Getting torn apart by wolves, Kissing, Love Triangles, Lovesick idiots, M/M, Madness, Magic Revealed, Minor Injuries, Murdering someone you once knew as a friend, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Nothing directly described, Or elements of sickfic at least, Paranoia, Platonic Cuddling, Poisoning, Resurrection, Rough beginning happy ending, Serious Injuries, Sickfic, Survival, Technically hounds but whatever, Technically spider venom?, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, They just talk about it nothing happens, Timeline resets (like so many times too msny to count), Touch-Starved, almost freezing to death, kindof, mentions of autism, mentions of nudity, mentions of sexual situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-09-25 07:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20373358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatDarnLakeSiren/pseuds/ThatDarnLakeSiren
Summary: Original Title: "Jack of All Trades, Master of None..."_________________________Science and magic do not mix well. But perhaps, the practitioners of these different trades can learn how to play nice long enough to escape...But between a meddling and jealous King of Nightmares and an anxiously lethal Defender of Dreams, Wilson just might lose his mind before he can figure out a way to escape.





	1. Snow(fall, snowfall, we all fall down)

**Author's Note:**

> Story starts slow before getting into the good stuff.

For nearly a year now, Wilson believed that he was alone.

Through spring, summer and fall, as he gathered resources, built up his camp, fought off the monsters and beasts of the Constant and the madness that lurked just out of reach of the campfires light, he found no evidence of any other human being. Maxwell, an annoying but otherwise welcome presence only stopped by for brief visits, sporadic in nature and usually warranted by a recent near-disaster. It wasn't something to be counted on. 

And if he was being honest with himself about it, Wilson was growing lonely. Having another person around would be nice. It would be easier to keep watch around camp, scavenge for resources, fight off monsters and hunt for food.

As winter set in, bitter and cold, Wilson was tempted to retract his prior wishes in favor of sticking it out alone. He had just enough warm clothes for himself, and scarce enough blankets in his sturdily constructed tent. Food was far scarcer. Through the hints Maxwell had dropped midfall, Wilson had concluded that winters here were long and cold, with food being difficult to forage for, and farming near impossible. If he wanted to even hope to survive, he had to stock up on provisions. 

Hunting was dangerous, but dried meat would last the longest. Farming proved quite literally fruitless, and Wilson found himself grateful that he'd had the foresight to build up a store of seeds. Foraging turned up little, but he was rarely rewarded with some hardy plant, that made the stews he cooked have a bit more variety in the otherwise repetitive meals. 

It wasn't easy, but he was surviving. All on his own. Without another person anywhere in sight. Having another person would just make things more difficult anyway, at this point in time. It would put a strain on his low resources, would no doubt result in both of them starving or freezing to death.

These thoughts flit through Wilson's mind in but a few moments, weak denials attempting, and failing to, reason away the evidence before him.

A broken bow, a very dead beefalo with an arrow sticking out of its throat, blood spatters and footprints leading away from the seen of a successful hunt. A hunt that Wilson had not partaken in, for he had no tools of archery nor had ever learned such a thing before. 

There was someone else here. Another person. Wilson felt quite a way about this (it was awful bad luck for the poor sap who was trapped here, but they were in it together now. The timing was terrible, as Wilson had barely enough to keep himself alive, let alone providing for another person. Not like the newcomer could control anything about their situation, but it was still a bothersome thing). but regardless of his own feelings he wasn't so heartless as to leave someone to die of bloodless and frostbite, low supplies be damned.

It didn't take him long to track down the newcomer. The snowfall, light as it was, hadn't managed to cover such fresh tracks, let alone the bright, berry-red blood. There was... a worrying amount of blood, actually... after ten minutes, he began to wonder if they were still alive. The tracks wavered, heavier on one side, indicative of a limp or injury. Wilson couldn't discern much other than that. Tracking was something he was unfamiliar with.

Before long he spotted the limp form, crumpled at the base of a tree. Wilson hurried over, taking in the bone-white skin and blue lips. He placed his fingers over their lips, barely touching, and released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He could feel their breath; they were alive. Maybe not for long, with the injuries they had and cold air, but he thankfully had supplies on hand. Hopefully it would be enough until he could bring them to the safety of his camp.

He didn't waste anymore time, pulling out bandages and a little jar of honey and setting straight to removing the torn, filthy clothes of his fellow survivor... which lead to several startling conclusions.

One, this was a young woman. Two, she was wearing nothing beneath a tattered old poncho and an equally tattered backpack. Three, she was bone-thin; she'd been out here for longer than Wilson had anticipated. 

How long had the pair of them wandered, believing themselves to be the sole survivor in this harsh, unforgiving world? When had she arrived; in the spring, the summer, the fall? Or had she been dropped into winter, without a clue to her surroundings, left to fend for herself in a world that allowed no true rest?

Shaking his head, Wilson got to work, certain his cheeks would be growing red if they weren't already because of the cold. The injury was an older one, caused not by the beefalo but by something else that had very, very big claws. The wounds were roughly bandaged by torn up cloth and held there by strands of spidersilk. There were partially torn off, the fabric soaked through with blood.

The woman was unconscious as Wilson took the old bandages off and applied honey to her wounds before bandaging everything up. Taking her bag, he swung it over his shoulder, pulled his hat snug over her head, then wrapped her up tighter in the poncho. He then picked her up, holding her close as he made the trek back to camp.

"Just hold on miss." He mumbled, feeling the slight movement of her breathing in his arms. "You'll be right as a freshly wound clock before long."

Upon returning to camp, Wilson immediately took the woman to the tent. He kept his gaze and thoughts elsewhere as he removed her snow dampened clothes and wrapped her in all the blankets he had, until only her dark mop of hair showed from all the layers.

He knew that there were other things to do, but Wilson found himself lingering. He took a seat, drinking in the presence of another person, revelling in the fact that he wasn't alone anymore. He was also afraid to leave her, he realised... he didn't want to leave and return only to find a still corpse in his tent. He wouldn't be able to bear it.

Curiosity soon took hold, questions that he couldn't yet ask his guest. Looking through her things would shed some light on what sort of person she was. You could tell a lot about a person by the clothes they wore and things they chose to carry on them.

An oversized poncho made of some fabric, dirtied and torn, that had hung about her person. It didn't look like any sort of plant fur or animal fiber, so he guessed that she'd had it when she entered the Constant. It had been torn and sewn many times, and bore an old texture, smoother on the outside. 

The pants were threadbare, dark in color and patterned with what looked to be cats. A belt of rope and cloth pouches, filled with odd bits and bobs, pebbles, leaves, a rough approximation of either a sewing needle or a fishhook with silken thread. A pocket knife, large and silver and coated in dried blood.

The bag was worn but sturdy, carrying nothing but some sticks, grass, a pair of broken glasses... and nestled in a bundle of torn cloth was the strangest stuffed animal Wilson had ever seen. He pulled it out, turning it this way and that. It was a teel frog like creature, with a big green plant bulb on its back, red eyes and a calm, serene smile. It was soft and bore a comforting weight to it, easily held in one hand. Something was tied around the plant bulb... a tiny woven bracelet, striped brown and green, with a small metal dogtqg proclaiming the creature as "Bulby".

Patches of fabric were soft but a lot of it was worn out, fingers tracing and rubbing the same spots until the fabric was no longer so soft... but despite this, the toy was holding up better than all the rest of the woman's things. 

Strange, Wilson thought it, that a grown woman had a stuffed toy, but it was likely clung too now because it was a last piece of home. However long she had been wandering out here, the toy "Bulby" was a comfort to her.

Carefully, he peeled back the layers of blanket and settled the toy by the woman's face. He noted with immense relief that her lips weren't as blue, her face slowly gaining back a more natural color to them. She was getting better, getting warm. She was going to be alright. 

Wilson wasn't alone anymore. He wasn't alone.


	2. Cigar Smoke and the Scientific Method

_"Whoa, hey pal. You don't look so good."_

_Winifred paused, surprised-anxious-suspicious fluttering through her chest, and looked up at the tall, handsome stranger. In the semi-darkness, the cigar in his hand burned bright as a star. Her face scrunched up at the scent of the thing, immediately detesting him and the bitter smoke he puffed out._

_"What's it to you?" She hissed out, harsh and tired. Something didn't feel right... her hackles were rising but she wasn't sure why. Winifred knew she looked tired and weak, like an easy target. She held her bag tighter to her, reaching for her pocket knife. _

_"Nothing, just thought you could use a hand." The man pulled something from his pocket and flipped it out towards her. She flinched, then squinted at the object in question once she determined it wasn't a weapon. With a jolt she realized it was a wad of cash... she couldn't tell how much, but even if it was only ones... it would go a long ways by now._

_Then, Winifred returned to her senses. She stepped back, knife pulled free from her bag, hidden just out of sight. "What's the catch?" She snapped. She wondered why she was even considering this... but if the exchange was... anything too awful... then she could just walk away. And if he tried to touch her, he'd be met with a very nasty surprise._

_The man let out an amused huff and she bristled, but he spoke before she could snap at him again,_

_"You got me there pal. I am in need of a favor, but it's less for me and more for a friend of mine. He's stuck in a bit of a bind, you see. Could use some help learning how to hunt and trap critters and other such woodsy things. I heard about that you were the best of the best, so I thought I'd make the offer." He paused, looking her over, expression shifting into something more neutral than his easy smile. "You seem in need of help as well, so I'd say it's a mutually beneficial deal to strike up."_

_Winifred considered the mans words and tone, his expression scrutinized. But he seemed candid in his claims. A whisper in her mind told her to turn away, to not listen, that it was a trap, she'd be taken of advantage of and hurt, but she brushed that anxiety aside, firmly telling it that it was a bit of an overreaction._

_"Alright." She took a step closer, slipping the knife away. "When can I begin?"_

_The man smiled, holding out the money once more. "The sooner the better." He replied._

_"Right. I can begin first thing tomorrow, if that works for your friend, mister...?" She took the money and stuffed it in her bag, then held out her hand to shake._

_"Call me Maxwell, Miss Wilde." He accepted it, giving a single firm shake. He didn't let go._

_Panic rose up and clawed at her; she tried to pull free, but the distant light was being swallowed up by shadow and echoes of whispers were reaching her ears. She took a wild swing at Maxwell, screaming her fury and fear out in one long, wordless cry. But the shadows snuffed out even the faint light if Maxwells' cigar, and he easily blocked the blow._

_He let out a sigh, darkness shrouding everything, but Winifred now clung to his arm, unable to see, the whispers increasing involume, her own internal voice screaming and scrambling for a solution. _

_A foreign force grabbed Winifred, dragging her away from the solid anchor that was Maxwell _ _and-- _

_The ground turned to thin air... the grasping force released her and... She was falling... falling... falling... _

_Between one moment and the next, Winifred went from falling to running, utter darkness snapping into blinding whiteness, her legs burning with exertion, hands shaking from how hungry she was. She gripped her axe tighter, looking back a moment to gauge how close the ginormous tree-monster was. _

_It was drawing closer... closer... too close!... she threw herself to the ground, sharp claws grazing her side. Pain exploded behind her eyes, on her face with a CRUNCH. She couldn't see, couldn't understand, just started running, dodging around trees and lunging over rock._

_Panic and fear consumed her, exhaustion and hunger not so new to Winifred but the constant battle against monster, wolf and hound was not something she was accustomed to in the slightest. The frigid winter was another threat to her wellbeing; used to far warmer climates, she struggled to keep warm now. She had heen lucky, in some ways; she had her knife, her backpack and a comfort item, easing her anxiety in many a way through the vicious days and long nights. _

_The landscape curled around her, not quite real, gliding past. Fuzzy, surreal, a hot flash washing over her head and limbs. Winifred whined, feeling positively feverish and ill, but the heat wasn't contained in her chest; the threat of the cold killing her was alive and real, but one of the signs of imminent death hadn't manifested just yet. _

_When she finally slowed, aching and gasping for air, she was on the edge of the woods. She'd never ventured this far; the forest offered some protection from the biting wind, and while she struggled she managed to scavenge enough food to keep herself alive, so far. Her shelter, though crude, was enough to keep her from freezing at night, and offered some peace of mind._

_Winifred was far from her measly shelter however, far from any supplies or food she so desperately needed right now. She hadn't anticipated encountering such a monster as the living tree as she went about collecting wood for her dwindling fire._

_Her side ran wet and cold and hot all at once. Adrenaline buzzed through her veins, heart still pounding. She needed to take care of her wounds. She was going to bleed out otherwise. But she was exhausted... so exhausted... _

_The day passed by in a blur. Winifred was only vaguely aware of her surroundings. Things came to her in a fragments. Stabbing a Spider with her knife. A strong blow to her body that sent her flying, but it felt much more like floating. Broken stick and limp thread in her hands, a rush of heat then cold on her side. _ _Numbness... dizzy but nothing was spinning, she couldn't see or hear beyond the fuzzy whiteness that dominated her vision. She couldn't feel the cold. A slight sensation of burning on her side, but that too faded, a sting and a pressure soothing the faint pain._

_More pressure, all over her body, a faint warmth, wherever the pressure was strongest. A rocking sensation, like being on a boat... then, stillness. Pressure weighed her down... and with it came warmth. Gradually, warmth retook her limbs, burning cold-hot in her fingers and toes. Her side began to ache, and she writhed miserably, unable to alleviate the growing pain. _

_A hand on her head. A presence. Another person...? Their fingers brushed through her hair, warm-cold against her burning flesh, accompanied by a string of words that rushed out like the creaking of the wind through the ice-covered branches of the trees. Winifred found herself relaxing. Though unable to make out the words, the voice was calm and soothing, the hands stroking over her head and hair kind._

_Gradually, the pain faded back to manageable levels, and Winifred slipped into true unconsciousness._

* * *

A long wail drew Wilsons attention. He looked up, hands stilling on needle and cloth as his heart rate picked up, pumping faster. He listened, unable to determine what kind of animal or monster had made the noise, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the fires light.. Another wail and he was on his feet, dashing towards the tent, pushing the flap aside and kneeling by his guest.

The woman was struggling to move beneath all the blankets, crying and in pain. She didn't seem conscious of her surroundings, eyes shut tight.

"Sh, sh its alright, you're safe now. Sh, you're fine, you're fine, you're safe. You're safe." He babbled, gently running a hand over her hair. 

The woman slowly fell still under Wilson's ministrations, though she still whimpered in pain. He kept stroking her head, the same comforting words repeated over and over, waiting until he was certain she was out before, reluctantly, pulling his hand away. He let out a long sigh, rubbing the side of his face, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

Since bringing this woman in earlier that day, she hadn't shown any signs of waking. Her injuries weren't deep or fatal, but the infection that had taken hold, alongside poor nutrition, was taking its toll on her. It was going to be a lot of hard work, trying to keep her and himself alive, especially without any medicine to fight the infection with. But despite the odds stacked against both of them, Wilson wasn't heartless, nor stupid. He realized full-well that looking after this stranger was draining his resources away, that it would be easier without another mouth to feed. Regardless of this fact, he most certainly didn't want to be alone, and it would be downright horrid if he threw her back out into the snow. It would he downright inhuman, even!

Rising, Wilson cast the woman a glance before leaving the tent. He put more logs in the fire, until it was built up to a roaring, warm beast. He sighed in relief and reclaimed his current project; making a long sleeved shirt for his guest. The poncho she had... worked he supposed, but it wouldn't be enough to keep her warm... and having a proper shirt would help with avoiding awkward or embarrassing situations in the future. 

But eventually, exhaustion wore him down, and he decided to call it a night. Entering the tent, he realized almost immediately that there was a problem. He had covered her in every blanket he had, which was barely enough to keep himself warm each night as it were. He dared not take any for himself but... it was unlikely to be enough.

Wilson bit his lip; the solution was right in front of his face, but it didn't feel the least bit appropriate. Too exhausted to fully think through his actions or their repercussions, he gave in and gingerly pulled the blankets away, slipping beneath and tucking them back around himself. He made sure he was settled with his back to his guest, keeping the chance of accidental touch to a minimum. A soft sigh escaped him as he settled, grateful for the warmth. It was far warmer than he'd anticipated... turning slightly, he pressed a hand to her forehead...

She was feverish, but he couldnt tell if she was any worse than before. Wilson sighed and turned his back again, tucking his limbs close to better preserve the warmth.

"I hope you last the night, Miss..." He shivered, thoughts drifting to the prowling beasts outside a moment before he drifted off. "...I pray we both last..."


	3. Hot Stew and Crimson Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is death and angst, waayyyy later at the bottom of this chapter. Mentions of blood and light description of injuries.
> 
> EDIT: fixed up some spelling errors and changed a few things with the chapters ending.

Wilson was roused the next morning by a rush of cold air caressing his cheek. He shivered and sat up, realizing quickly that the tent flap was loose and fluttering in the cold breeze. A quick look around the tent also revealed that his guest was gone. He scrambled out of the tent, looking around frantically, calling for her,

"Miss! Where did you go? Miss, can you hear me?"

She must have woken up delirious from fever, or maybe the fever had broken and she decided to leave. The first possibility left room for her to be wandering in a daze through the woods, injured and helpless to any nearby monsters. The second... she was still hurt and starving; she wouldn't last long alone (a selfish thought; he just didn't want to be alone again).

Turns out, he need not have worried overmuch about her leaving. After circling the camp searching for fresh tracks, he found her lying in a snowbank behind the tent. Thankfully, she was dressed in her tattered clothes, the poncho stretched wide against the snow. 

"Miss... are you alright?" Wilson asks her, reaching out a hand for her to take. It was a wonder that she'd gotten this far at all, really.

" 'S fine... jus' hot." She mumbled, blinking up at him, exhausted. She didn't take his hand, or even try to get up, instead squinting at him. "...who 're you?"

"Wilson P. Higgsbury, Miss." He answers, crouching beside her. She was coherent, at least, which was a major improvement over her prior condition. "I found you, yesterday. You were injured. Do you remember what happened?"

Her eyes flickered weakly in his direction then away, flicking shut. He worried that she had fallen unconscious, but her jaw worked slightly, eyebrows furrowed. "Guardian... of th' tree's... attacked me. Big hairy fella... charged me... don' rememb'r much..."

"You were passed out in the snow when I found you. Bandaged yourself up with cloth and spidersilk. Pretty clever actually, but the bandages tore. I took you to my camp and patched you up." Wilson wanted to bring her back to the safety of his camp, but he wasn't sure how she would respond if he tried picking her up. 

She blinked back up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. She shifted, tongue poking out briefly. "...hurts." she said simply, taking a deep breath and wincing. She whined, breaths noticeably more shallow. "Don' like it."

"Can you stand?" He asks, offering his hand again. He pressed on when she only blinked at him, trying to convince her, "Its not safe out here. My camp has fire, food, shelter..." 

Finally, she nodded, and struggled to push herself upright. Her arms trembled and gave out, Wilson lurching forward to catch her in time. Supporting her with an arm around her shoulders, he sighed, shaking his head slightly. "Easy. You're hurt, starving, and are burning up worse than a forest fire. You need to rest. I got you, you're gonna be alright."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, muttering acquiesce. One of her hands grasped weakly at his shirt as Wilson half-lead, half-carried the young woman back to the tent. Wilson helped her settle under the blankets, gently pressing a hand to her forehead to check her temperature. She didn't feel as hot as last night, but she still had a pretty high fever. He wanted to check the bandages, but he didn't want to encroach on her privacy now that she was awake.

"I'm going to cook some food for you." He tells her, standing. "Stay put, alright? I'll be back in a few minutes."

She muttered something in reply, looking drowsy enough for sleep. Wilson quietly left, deciding that he could simply wake her once the food was ready. She certainly needed the rest, but he had to do whatever he could to get food and fluids into her today. He had no way of knowing when the last time she ate or drank was; if she was going to have any chance of fighting off the infection, and regaining her strength, she needed to stay hydrated and get some food into her system.

So, he made some stew. After finding and treating his guest, Wilson had returned to where he found her and carved some flesh from the beefalo, as well as nabbing some of its fur for later use. Melting snow and cutting the meat into small pieces, he was able to put together enough food for a good few days. An unexpected boon of his meeting her, but there was no telling how long it would last between two hungry people. 

He would need to learn her name, Wilson realizes. He hadn't thought to ask her before, his thoughts elsewhere. A chuckle bubbled up, rubbing at his face with one hand. Several months alone had apparently been enough to make him forget his manners. Then again, the situation was hardly what one would consider "normal". He laughed again, harder, when he realized he knew the name of the toy Miss kept but not her own. 

Soon enough, the food was ready. He carried the pot inside and took a seat beside her. She stirred from her slumber, blinking up at him, confused. Gently, Wilson pulled some of the blankets loose, carefully maneuvering the young woman until she was a little more upright. Pulling the pot of stew closer, he gently prodded her lips with a spoon full of broth.

"You need to eat. You won't get better if you don't eat." Wilson coaxed, relief flooding him when she opened her mouth. He made sure she swallowed before trying to coax another spoonful into her, and after several minutes the pots contents were significantly lowered. She refused to eat anymore, and admittedly looked a little green in the face, so he set the spoon aside, instead reaching to gently comb his fingers through her hair.

"Sh, it's alright. I won't force you to eat more. You had quite a lot in fact." Wilson chuckled slightly. "Glad someone enjoys my cooking." He joked.

He gently ran his hand through her hair a few more times, then went about pulling the blankets tighter around her. Already she was drifting off again, though he noticed with some amusement that she was clutching her toy close.

Wilson smiled slightly and set to the stew, sighing contentedly as the first warm mouthful reached his stomach. "We're going to be alright." A hope, a certainty, a prayer.

* * *

Five days days later, her fever broke. Throughout that time, Wilson made sure she was fed and hydrated. He checked her wounds daily as well, replacing the bandages and reapplying the honey poultice. One late night he awoke to her sobbing and struggling to leave the tent, delirious from fever. He had little choice but to restrain her in the tent, lest she wander outside and hurt herself further. (He still had some bruises leftover).

Wilson had to leave camp at times to gather fuel for the fire or scavenge for food. Though he still had plenty of jerky, it wouldn't sustain two people for much longer (and there was no guarentee the winters here were rhe sane as back home). He also hoped to find some plant or another that he may have overlooked before, some herb that might provide a healing benefit. 

Returning back from one such expedition, emptyhanded, he found his guest sitting by the fire. She had a blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, and looked up when he approached, squinting in the evening light. She tensed but raised a hand in greeting, silent.

"You're up! How are you feeling?" Wilson asks, placing fresh logs on the fire.

"...fine ... who are you?" 

"Wilson Higgsbury." He replies, offering his hand. 

She shook it, once, and didn't let go. "Winifred Wilde." Her thumb brushed lightly over a scab, brows furrowing with concern. "...I suppose I should thank you for saving me. Would've been a goner without your help."

Wilson smiled at her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "It was no trouble Miss Wilde." He scratched a hand through his growing stubble. "Though I will admit... I've barely got enough resources to last myself through the winter." _Let alone us both._

Winifred meowed softly. Wilson stared at her, uncertain; had that come from her? But why? She spoke after a moment, fiddling with something under the blankets.

"I can hunt, and set traps. Can teach you too. Shouldn't be so hard." She looked up at him, something tentative in her eyes.

Wilson lit up at the prospect, beaming at her. "That would be very much appreciated, Miss Wilde."

She frowned up at him, "Please call me Winifred." 

"Right, of course, my apologies." Wilson reassures her.

"Do you... know where we are?" She asks next.

Wilson's smile dropped. "I admit I dont know for certain. But it's definitely not our world." He sighed softly, gaze turning towards the fire, hands folded in his lap. "I won't lie to you, Winifred; we might be here for the long run. I haven't been able to figure out a way back, and the fellow that runs the place is... cryptic at best."

He felt his cheeks redden, and hoped he could blame it on the cold.

"Nngh. This is some nasty business... are we the only ones here?" Winifred asks.

"I thought I was all alone, until I found you." He admits. "Maybe there are others, and we simply haven't run into one another. Or maybe we truly are the only ones..."

Her hand on his shoulder. A comforting smile, eyes bright with hope. "Either way, we've got eachother now. I'm sure we can make it together."

Wilson felt a smile grow, and pat her hand. She was right; they had one another now. Working together, they could surely survive through whatever this world threw at them, and find a way back home in time.

* * *

A week after Winifreds fever broke, and she was doing remarkably better. She wasn't at a hundred percent, but she was up and active, helping around the camp. Despite Wilsons' insistence that she relax in the tent and rest for longer, Winifred brushed him and his concerns away, too antsy to sit still when there was work to be done.

One of the first things she did was commandeer most of the rope Wilson had and start trekking out into the woods, an anxious Wilson in tow. About fifteen minutes from the camp, she stopped, hiding a slight wheeze, and set about making a snare trap, tying down a young sapling for her purposes and cutting the rope into the proper length with her knife.

Wilson watched over her shoulder, occasionally asking questions about how she was making the snare. He kept his ears pricked, ready to fight or flee should some creature appear.

A few days were spent this way; trailing after her and helping her build snare traps, and checking the other ones. Some had been tripped without catching anything. Their first catch was that of a jackalope; struggling, it died quick and painless when Winifred snapped its neck. She later showed a remarkable skill for skinning them, her silver blade coming in handy there. 

By night, the pair of them cuddled together for warmth. Despite some anxiety of Wilsons', Winifred was the cuddly sort, finding comfort hugging him or pressing her back to his on those nights he didn't want his chest squeezed. He quite enjoyed it in all honesty, taking comfort in her presence, as she did his, no doubt.

There were the little things, here and there, that concerned Wilson... Winifred often talked to the toy "Bulby" when she thought him out of earshot. Speaking to it or asking it questions and responding to silent answers. He worried more than once that she may be slipping into insanity. Another odd collection of quirks was the animal-like behavior. She often warbled or meowed, hissing and growling and baring her teeth. He was, quite frankly, baffled by it.

More concerning, however, was Winifeds tendency to wince and cover her right eye. It often slid out of focus, especially late in the day, and she would shut that eye altogether, managing fairly well without suffering from a loss of depth perception. Generally speaking, he was fairly certain she was nearsighted, as well. She had a tendency to squint and had difficulty recognizing objects or animals from a distance. 

He remembered the broken glasses in her pack and drew some simple conclusions. There had to he a way to repair them, or maybe he could try making a new pair altogether. 

But all around, things were going well. Winifreds knowledge of snares had allowed them to stay stocked up on food, and the pelts made it possible to start making warmer clothes and blankets. Despite her never complaining, Wilson caught Winifred shivering more than once as they went about the day. She heeded better clothes than threadbare pants and poncho she had. 

But all around, things were going well.

Until, quite suddenly, they weren't. 

* * *

They heard the howling long before the hounds arrived. 

Winifred heard the beasts noise and had to resist the immediate urge to answer the call and howl back. An impulse she barely overcame, but she managed. Wilson made a soft sound of fear beside her and she turned to him, immediately grasping his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"The hounds." He answered simply. "Hounds sent after me- after _us_. They'll kill us, if we can't outrun them or kill them first." He replied, voice low. 

Her grip tightened briefly and then released. She grabbed her knife and flipped it open, desperately wishing for a bow and arrows.

"W-we'll have to try and outrun them. If we-we get far enough away they should lose interest... I've barely fought them off once a-and it didn't go so well. You're still recovering but we'll have to try and just run... maybe I could distract them? Let you get away and then I could catch up; yes that may be for the best. Then we can--"

His barrage of words soon made no right sense, though not of any fault of Wilsons'. Her own mind couldn't follow, and she had lost track of the point or plan he was trying to make. But she had the gist of things; the hounds were a dangerous reoccurring threat, and she was too weak to either outrun them or outgun them. 

Winifred was no fool. Though she voiced no complaint, her wounds still ached and her body was still weakened from her starved state. She was still recovering; she hadn't nearly recovered her strength. She knew she couldn't take these things on in a fight and hope to win, nor could she trust her legs to carry her fad far enough to escape. So if they couldn't outrun or outgun the dumb mutts... then they would have to outsmart them.

"Wilson, shut up I've got an idea." Winifred interrupts, physically pressing her hand over his mouth to mute his barrage. When he stilled under her touch, she removed her hand, instead grasping him by the shoulders. "We're going to snare the hounds. Even if it doesn't catch all if them it should be enough for us to fight off the rest."

"Winifred... you're still recovering." He began quietly, lifting a hand to squeeze one of hers. "You shouldn't even be up and about, let alone fighting."

"I know that. I ain't dumb. But this is the best plan I've got. After any that ain't caught are dead we can just take out the rest at our leisure." She squeezed his shoulders, nuzzling into one of them in a more comforting gesture. "I know it ain't perfect but we gotta at least try. And I refuse'ta leave you behind to fight them alone."

He didn't answer straight away, lips trembling as he stared down at her. Finally, he caved, wrapping his arms around her in a brief, but tight hug. She hugged back, sensing that he needed the comfort, that he didn't want to let go.

"Alright. Just promise me you'll be careful."

"Promise." She grasped his hand and squeezed. "Promise me you'll stay alive too, Wilson."

He nodded, raising a hand to stroke through her hair. "Promise." He breathed.

They separated, and got to work. What they needed was a ring of snares, or a curved line. So long as they knew where the snares were they could avoid them and dash across as the pleased, leading more and more hounds into the trap. Whatecer stragglers weren't caught could be more easily picked off, one by one.

And initially, the plan worked. The first four hounds got caught, and were left dangling and whimpering by their legs, struggling to free themselves. The next three, riding on thror fellows heels, charged at the pair of survivors. 

Wilson had his spear at the ready, dodging the first hound and plunging his spear deep into its flank. It yelped and screamed and he grunted, pushing it in deeper before wrenching it out, dark blood blossoming across the snow. The hound succumbed quickly to its wound and fell, whining. Wiping sweat from his eyes, he turned to face the other two, and was horrified at what he saw. 

Her silver blade buried deep into the throat of a second fallen hound, Winifred was fighting against the third and final foe. She pushed against its throat, scrabbling to strangle it or push it off as it snapped its jaws mere inches from her face. Her strength quickly gave out and the hound lunged, the woman releasing a choked scream as shalt fangs sunk into her flesh. 

Wilson lunged into action, driving his spear into the hounds flank, trying to avoid hitting his friend at the same time. Her struggles were weakening but he saw her fighting back out of the corner of his eye. The damm hound wouldn't release its grip, jaws like a vice, refusing to open. He wrenched out his spear and drove it with all the force he could muster into the creatures chest. There was a choked yelp; something popped and snapped in the murderous canine; Wilson pushed it away, yanking his spear out roughly as the hound drowned in it's own blood and keeled over. 

He huffed softly, then turned to Winifred, dropping to his knees. Her teeth grit, tears streaming down her cheeks, she clutched the torn wreckage of her arm. Blood pulsed thickly beneath her fingers and Wilson's heart sank at the sight.

"Let me see." He ordered, trying to pry off her grip. She let out a cry of pain and he winced, but didn't cease in prying her fingers off. "Let me see, damn it!"

Her breath hitched with sobs but she didn't fight him anymore, allowing Wilson to turn her arm over in his hands. He swallowed thickly, stomach sick with dread, limbs shaking as adrenaline wore off and fear squeezed his heart. The hound had sunk sharp fangs into Winifred's wrist, slicing through vital arteries and shattering the bones. There was no way to fix this... Wilson doubted that even a hospital and proper, modern medicine would be able to save her. 

He didn't realize he was crying until a shaking hand cupped his cheek, brushing the tears away. He blinked down at Winifred, the young woman already woozy from the swift loss of blood, but she still choked out a soft, "Are you okay, Wilson...?"

He giggled without humor, wondering what kind of question that was; he was uninjured but he definitely wasn't okay. This just showed what kind of person Winifred was... a kind, selfless young woman. One that was about to die due to his own carelessness. He should've stayed closer to her. He should've insisted on a different plan--

Her hand found it's way around him, weakly pulling him closer. Wilson found himself following her lead, shifting them both until he was holding her tight to his chest, curling over her slightly in an attempt to shield her from the snow that fell in flurries and swirls about them.

"Thank you..." she whispers, curling against him with a sigh of relief. The fingers of her good hand grasped his shirt, curling weakly into the fabric. Winifred hiccups softly, lips quivering, "...I'm s-sorry Wils'n...I didn't m-m-mean to... br... break my pr-promise..."

"Winifred..." he breathed, but she didn't answer him. Her eyes slipped shut but she was still breathing. Her body was limp in his arms, no longer rigid with pain. He tucked his fingers against the side of her throat, feeling her heart beating weakly. He choked on a sob, helplessness and despair weighing heavy on his shoulders. 

He cradled her close as breaths rattled soft and shallow out of her, trying to keep her warm despite the frigid cold that surrounded them. Wilson brushed a hand through her hair, offering comfort in these final moments Winifred had. She moved just slightly under his touch, almost nuzzling into his hand, like she often did when they bedded down in the tent for the night. 

Her heart stopped under his fingertips and-- 

Wilson was alone. He was all alone. He was doomed to be alone... wasn't he...?

_"So she fell to the hounds then, pal? A clever plan, to trap them, but not clever enough I'm afraid."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos are hugs, and comments are love! No joke comments make me so happy, they help me write more chapters too.


	4. Magicans Tricks, featuring the Spectre Protector!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is otherwise known as, "Maxwell is a jealous dick who can't admit his feelings and Wilson and Winifreds relationship continue to remain ambiguously vague but adorable", part one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell makes an appearance! And not in a hypothermia/fever induced dream! Yay!

The plan had been clever, admittedly. Using snares to entangle and trap his hounds, while picking off the rest. But even when such traps worked, more slipped through the gaps. Higgsbury took care of one easily enough, and Wilde dispatched another. But when ones only weapon is a small knife and nothing else... well, what else is to be expected when the person in question perishes to the hounds fangs? Maybe, if she had been healthier, she could have fended it off long enough for Higgsbury to save her, but such was not the case.

(Weakened be starvation long before being tricked here, too much cold and blood loss and fever weakening her further still, paired up eith too little rest in such a chaotic, dangerous world. The odds were stacked against her, and Maxwell had taken advantage.)

Watching her bleed out as Higgsbury comforted her twisted something in the magician, and Wilde's dying words and actions were nothing terribly remarkable. Except for being ones where the person in question wasn't gabbing off last words. 

(Her woods an unmatched kindness to a man who no doubt would blame himself for her death)

Higgsbury was completely distraught, grief coiling around his heart. A painful loneliness ached through the mans soul, made worse by the sudden loss of the young woman. 

Maxwell took a moment to stare coldly at the dead huntress, her spectre not yet manifested in a way that Higgsbury could perceive. Before, the death of a pawn meant resetting the loop. But with two pawns situated in the same twisting hourglass of time and space, well, the rules needed to be changed. While not implemented to their fullest just yet, Maxwell had prepared them thusly for this exact occasion. 

Projecting himself an easy, practised affair, Maxwell began his spiel, "So she fell to the hounds then, pal? A clever plan, to trap them, but not clever enough I'm afraid."

Higgsbury startled and looked up, instinctively holding the woman's body closer to his own. The mans emotions flickered--relief at the familiar company drowned quickly by his sorrow. "What could you possibly want, Maxwell." Higgsbury croaked, voice cracking. 

Maxwell fidgeted with a cigar, deliberating over his words before saying aloud, "Easy, pal. I'm not here to poke fun. Only suggest she come up with a better plan in the future."

The metaphorical gears turned in Higgsbury's head as he puzzled out these words, arriving quickly at the answer, "So she's not... this isn't permanent?"

(He ignores the way the way hope flared so brightly in the scientist)

Maxwell huffed, feigning offense. "Of course not. Do you truly need a reminder? This is _my world_, Higgsbury; **_I_** make the rules here."

With a dramatic snap of his fingers and some willpower, the new rules he'd written sunk into the very fabric of this world.

Wilde's corpse rapidly transformed into a skeleton, and her spirit fully manifested, blinking in surprise at her surroundings.

Higgsbury shrieked and scrambled back, dropping the bones of the woman and staring with a mixture of shock, fear and awe at her ghost.

Wilde's ghost didn't respond to Higgsbury's frantic questioning or attempts at grabbing her hand, instead turning a slight frown on Maxwell. Spirits were a little harder to read than living folks, but he could pick up on enough to know she was discontent with his presence, some faint memory of him leaving her agitated and wary.

When it became apparent to Higgsbury that the apparition of his friend wasn't going to respond (the scientist couldn't decide whether she was a figment of his imagination or not), he turned instead to Maxwell. He stared expectantly, silent, waiting. 

Maxwell took a long drag of his cigar and let it out slowly, drawing out the moment, building suspense and anxiety in the smaller man. "Spider glands and grass... and life energy. A simple recipe, but taxing. Especially in this weather."

He gestured at the snow all around as example. The whimpering hounds, still strung up by their legs from Wilde's carefully made traps, wound up encompassed in his gesture, something Higgsbury didn't miss in the slightest.

The man mumbled under his breath, committing the ingredients to memory. Although 'how' to make the needed item, or how to use it, were not questions Maxwell felt like answering. There had to be some struggle, didn't there? And perhaps Higgsbury would realise just how difficult it was to keep anyone else alive in this harsh world. He knew how to make those clever traps now, afterall; he didn't need Wilde anymore.

(She would be little more than a burden by the time Higgsbury brought her back. Starved all over again, Maxwell reckoned. Weaker too. The Telltale heart would work, but it was never meant to be the perfect solution.)

Just as Higgsbury turned to him, mouth open with a question, Maxwell cut hin off, recalling his projection and his awareness immediately after giving his farewell, "Might want to build a fire, pal. Night approaches swiftly."

Back upon his throne, Maxwell huffed a sigh, and resigned himself to waiting. Only time could tell how things would play out from here.

He released a longer sigh, opening a window to the world above, not wanting to miss whatever was about to occur. His lips pressed into a thin line, a flicker of worry disguised immediately by false agitation.

"Don't die out there, Higgsbury."

* * *

Winifred trailed after the man, hands fidgeting together as he rambled on about this or that. She couldn't quite make out the words, but the voice was achingly familiar in a way that she couldn't quite explain. She felt like she was wrapped in a thick fog, her focus and ability to understand limited to a narrow field of view.

The man, in a way, was a beacon. A distinct figure in otherwise blurred surroundings and confusing jumbles of sound. 

Winifred couldn't remember how she got here, or what she was meant to be doing. Whenever she tried to recall anything beyond waking up in the clearing with the two men and the strung-up hounds, her mind blanked, memories fleeing like startled cats. But they were _there_, just out of reach. It proved that there was a Before to her story, something other than foggy senses and blank mind and following the shorter, scruffier of the two men.

(The taller stunk of cigar smoke and all-around gave her an uneasy feeling; she hadn't been sad to see him vanish in a puff of black smoke.)

A curiosity came with the snow. It fell in thick clumps, but they didn't touch her. As the wind whipped up with a vicious howling, sending the tree branches clattering and the man huddling over himself, it did not affect her. Her poncho remained still about her shoulders, her hair lying in limp strands on her head. Whenever she tried to touch something, her hand slid through it like smoke. Like nothing was truly real. It was... deeply unsettling. It felt distinctly wrong, in a way that she couldn't really pin down.

That aside, she'd learned that she couldn't make a sound. None that the man could hear, at least. Whenever he paused in his wandering to light a fire for the night, he would speak to her, watching her closely for a response. She had tried to answer back, to ask questions, but he seemed unable to read her lips. Or perhaps her answers were unsatisfactory. He often looked into the fire with sad eyes and pursed lips after their failed attempts at communication. 

She didn't understand a lot of what was going on, bit she could recognize unhealthy behavior.

Winifred first noticed that the man hadn't eaten for days--had it been longer? Had she miscounted the days? Time felt strange to her now--after he collapsed after standing up quickly. He was shaking, grasping his stomach, and she realised that she hadn't actually seen him eat in all the time she had been following him around.

A sense of irritation flared in her chest, a melding of concern for this stranger and frustration at her inability to interact with anything at all. It all came out with a sharp snap of her jaws, spitting out,

"_You need to keep up your strength, idiot, or you'll never last the winter. Sleep, eat some damn food, _**something**_ other than your damn mindless wandering and muttering._"

He looked up at her, mouth gaping wide open.

She frowned; had he heard her, at last?

"Can you hear me?"

But he didn't answer, only nodded and muttered almost feverishly to himself, fidgeting with his hands. Slowly, he picked himself back up, and did an about-face, walking in the opposite direction he had been heading in.

Winifred trailed after, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Speaking before had garnered no such result as this... what had changed? 

The rest of the day was spent traveling, and at last the man came upon some semblance of civilization. 

A tent, a firepit made of stone and a soft hollow of earth, filled with ash and snow, a crockpot settled at its edge. Two strange machines, one of moldy straw and sticks, the other metallic and clicking absently, creaking with rust. Chests lined the boundaries of the camp, holding fast against the snow.

It is the chests the man first staggers towards, and practically collapses besides. His strength lasted a little longer and he ate, jerky and rotting flesh serving for a disgusting but much-needed meal. 

Winifred looked up after a few minutes, finding the man slumped over the chest. She approached, frowning in concern, but she detected life in him after a few moments staring. Kneeling by his side, she attempted to touch his shoulder, but it passed through without making contact. 

She huffed in frustration, then grumbled with discontent. Night approached quickly, and here the many sleeping, exposed to the elements. He wouldn't last the night like this... and she could do nothing but watch.

...or maybe she could try something... 

Struck by impulse and the fleeting inkling of an idea, she pulled her poncho free and spread it over the mans shoulder, thoughts firmly entrenched in _warmth_ and _protection_.

To her utter surprise and delight, it became tangible. It bore a strange glow and looked somewhat see-through, but it was solid, and if the mans shiver and relieved mumbles were anything to go by, warm as well. 

Still, she couldn't touch him... but with a lot of focus she began shoveling snow around him. Building up layers of frosty protection, until he was covered in enough insulating whiteness to last the night. The snow made her fingers cold and then numb, turning red from it all and she marvelled in the sensation while it lasted.

But even after she was assured that the man wouldn't die due to starvation or the cold, there was still the matter of the darkness... and the Shadows. And for all her attempts, Winifred couldn't pull open any chests to retrieve torches or logs and matches to start a fire. Exhaustion was wearing on her, and she couldn't touch anything anymore.

So she sat by the man who held such painful, comforting familiarity, and waited. 

.....

...............

.........................

"_...what is... her poncho... how?_"

_"_ ** <strike> _Winifred?_ </strike> ** _"_

* * *

When the broken notes of a music box and sharp cries of desperation reached her ears, it was almost too late. 

Her head jerked up, not from sleep but a daze, thoughts scrambling to make sense of what she saw.

Dark, shadowed hands grasped the man, lifting him up as he struggled and writhed in pain. About to drag him back down. Steal him away. Hurt him-- _was_ hurting him, about to **kill him**\--

"No..." the word tumbled from her lips as she lurched to her feet, anger pulsing through her body and tearing from her throat with a roar, "_No! Let him **go**!_" 

A wolf's snarl and cats hissing accompanied swift, wild, rabid movements; fury consumed her, fury at these shadowed apparitions that dared to touch something so precious to her. She didn't cease until the shadows had retreated, until a light shone, until a voice called something urgently, over and over, and Winifred realised she was thrashing and screaming at nothing, the danger chased away, and the man-

The man was safe. Frightened and concerned and bearing a torch, sides bloodied but he was standing. He was alive. He was _alive_. He was safe.

She sagged with relief and exhaustion, sinking to the ground. She wanted to curl up and... and just let her mind fade into darkness. Just for a little while. She was just so

god

damned

tired...

"....? ...! ...! ...!!!"

She sensed movement, heard his voice. Looked up, eyelids heavy, body heavy, listless, and realized he was trying to hold her hand. Her fingers curled weakly, but she hadn't the strength to grasp them. Their fingers drifted through like the other was made of smoke. He was pleading with her, words she couldn't understand, always the same, now, trying to stroke a hand through her hair.

It was bright. When had the sun risen? She didn't know, but she was so tired...

The man spoke to her, stopped abruptly, staring intently into her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, trying to enunciate her words, lips moving faintly, but exhaustion was settling deep into her, lulling her down, enough for her to finally rest.

Her words lay heavy on her tongue, unspoken as her chin fell to her chest. She sagged, drifting away into a numb, silent dark...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't necessarily want to break this into pieces but the ending fit, well enough. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	5. The Wavering Notes of an Intangible Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Title: A Scientists Gift, A Magicians Denial  
Alternate Title 2: Offering A Heart For A Heart, Owing A Life For A Life  
Alternate Title 3: the author kindof feels like dying right now due to insomnia
> 
> My cheek bones are numb and this chapter is giving me anxiety. Mmphhhhhhhh--*flops into bed and fucking dies*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilson had done it. He had made the Telltale heart!
> 
> ...how the fuck did this help him bring a ghost back to life this was hardly scientific at all--
> 
> *ghostly wailing*
> 
> Oh _feck_\--
> 
> *running in the distance, accompanied by distressed trumpet and an angry echoing wail*

She remained still and silent, hunched over by the chests. He couldn't touch her, but her steady glow and solid, unflickering image assured him she was stable (she had to be okay- as okay as she could be as a ghost- he had to bring her back-)

After she had saved him from the Grue, he owed her her life back. 

(Life for a life, he saved hers and she saved his, and now again he brings her back but this time he owed her, he owed her, he owed her, he owed her--)

It was like those first few days of being not-alone only better, only _worse_. (Present in body but not of the mind, taken by fever and barely able to speak, rambling nonsense syllables and screaming in fear, thrashing about so much he had to restrain her, hold her shaking body close until she stopped and weakly hugged him and cried instead--) He didn't need to worry about keeping her fed and hydrated, didn't need to worry about her growing cold--

(The poncho-turned blanket, white as the snow and laced with gray stripes, see-through and soft and so inexplicably warm; he spread it around her shoulders and it bonded to her- yet not- becoming wholly intangible as the rest of her, heatless as the rest of her-)

\--he could instead focus on his own needs.

Food, real food, that and wood. He etched the plan out meticulously in his mind--_she isn't conscious enough to snap you back into a semblance of put-together anymore_\--and got to work. 

Wood was easy. Fire became a constant now, the fire pit kept alive with blazing warmth. Next, food. Winifreds snares and traps, once reset, caught enough food to survive on, day by day. Which conflicted with the next item on his mental itinerary; spider glands. He needed to gather enough food to last him a few days, but he couldn't reasonably afford to skip meals and lose strength in order to preserve food for the journey... but he gad to try.

Out near where he first found her weeks ago, then to press beyond; there the spiders nest lay, lingered, thrived, though in cold winter thankfully they mostly slept--

(Spider silk binding the tatters of a worn t-shirt to her wounds, white-red-white-blue-white-yellow-whi-_redredred_\--)

\--but a few solid whacks to the side of a nest should be enough to rouse them.

Not too far from the spiders were the plains and the grass he needed. He could gather all he may need and return to camp, then start to work...

Doing what? He had no instructions, no blueprints, not even an inkling of an idea of how these objects would help, what they could make, and how that could bring back the dead. It wasn't... it wasn't possible, scientifically speaking! There was no such thing as ghosts! 

If that were the case he was hallucinating. But hallucinations couldn't share their warm, see-through clothes or fight off the shadows. Besides, why else would Maxwell have told him of a revival method, of a way to bring her back? To dangle home in front of him, just to watch him scramble and suffer? No, no, he didn't believe Maxwell would do such a thing.

So. He would have to experiment, then, until he hit upon the proper solution. A thrill of excitement coaxed a smile from him; being able to theorize and test and work within the realm of science was a soothing notion, an anchor point when all else screamed in tongues about things he didn't understand, like ghosts and resurrecting the dead and shadows that could grab and hurt and leave shallow wounds.

(A ghost of a dead woman, screaming with an echoed fury, pulsing with light and bearing claws, claws and sharp teeth, tearing the shadowed hands apart after ripping them from him, and she wasn't alive but she was _solid_ when she brushed against him and her fury and protective thoughts burned into Wilson's mind for days afterwards like Starlin a moonless sky. 

_He remembered calling her name as she thrashed and screamed at empty air. He remembered fearing her touch hurting him but desperately wishing he could her hold her until the screams faded away to sobs and then quiet, peaceful sleep. He remembered her confusion, her exhaustion. He remembered sharp, heart-stopping fear that she was going to die again, not again, **please not again**\--_)

So, Wilson stocked up on supplies and headed out.

And so, Wilson hunted spiders in the cold, coming away bitten and moaning from the venom but otherwise unharmed. 

And so, Wilson looked for grass, any he could find, nearly freezing to death as the winds bullied over the plains uninhibited to cut through all his warm wrappings.

And so, Wilson made sure to rest and make fires by night, made sure to eat, to bind his wounds with silk-woven bandages and the last reserves of honey poultice he had.

And so, Wilson returned to camp laden with supplies, mind buzzing with ideas on how to get started on making the resurrection tool.

And so, Wilson bound grass to the glands, bit sharp silver into his palm and dripped crimson life onto the aftermath. 

And so, he tried to figure out the right amount of grass and glands, tried using the science and alchemy machines, anything and everything he could think of until he was reasonably assured he'd managed to produce the correct item.

And so, with a bloody hand wrapped up poorly in bandages and a pulsing, beating semblance of a heart in his hands, shifting all on its own due to _magic_ and unexplainable by science clutched tight in his hands, Wilson tried to resurrect his ghostly companion.

Kneeling by her sagging figure, lost to sleep and somehow leaning against one of the chests, Wilson was hit by a surge of anxiety and gnawing fear.

What if it didn't work? What if he needed her body (or whatever was left of it) here as well? What if he'd calculated wrong, hypothesized incorrectly, and made something that would destroy her? What if she came back but didn't remember, or was _changed_, twisted into a monster that wore a human skin? 

What if, what if, what if,_ what if, what if, what if,** what if, what if, WHAT IF, WHAT IF, WHAT IF**\--_

* * *

A darkness, merciful in the way it wrapped around her like a blanket, smothering away sensation (bad _and_ good), thought, awareness. An escape from exhaustion that left her wishing for something, something (sleep, let me sleep I'm so tired), allowed her to drift peacefully enough. 

A steady, rhythmic pounding broke through the silence, and quite suddenly, she Woke Up.

Stinging cold on her fingertips, her nose and cheeks. Hands grasping her shoulders tightly, one wet and hot in a way that set off warning bells (but she couldn't puzzle out _why_). A stream of noise, rapid garbled syllables that she couldn't understand over the roar in her ears, the drum-like pounding settling deeply into her chest, nestling like a bird in a birdhouse, singing out gaily and drowning out any other sound and-- _good God her chest was on _**fire**_ what was **happening** to her_\--

"-ifred, Winifred! You need to breathe- You need to _breathe_, dammit!"

That name, _her_ name, caught in anothers voice, a familiar voice, the other words slowly filtering around the pounding and the burning and- _oh dear God that was her _**Heartbeat**_ how had she forgotten what that felt like how had she accepted the empty, unnatural silence before so easily_-

"Please, please, you need to live, I just got you back," Rough hands, desperate hands, shaking her shoulders in a panicked way, the familiar voice cracking with a slough of emotions she couldn't quite pinpoint through a growing haze. "Y-you need to _breathe, Winifred--"_

But she latched onto his words and-

Breathed.

The first breath came choking and gasping, the air sharp with cold, jagged and unmercifully biting at her throat. But that first freezing breath eased the fire in her lungs and each breath was easier than the last and she felt dizzy with it, dizzy with relief-

Crushed tight to another living, breathing creatures torso, tears soaking into her shoulder and arms entangled around her, vice-like, but she wasn't afraid. This body was familiar to her, if thinner than usual and wracked by sobs. (Winifred could feel his heart pitter-pattering beneath her hand-)

She breathed out his name,

"Wilson,"

And he sobbed, tremors wracking his frame as relief and joy and residual grief bundled together all at once in his chest and came crying from his throat, his eyes, babbling apologies and promises and stuttering accounts of what he'd done to stay alive in her 'absence' and-

Winifed held him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder, hot tears leaving cool tracks down her cheeks as all that had happened sunk deep into her. The memory of pain and fading and a warm body curled around hers, keeping off the cold--it was almost too much, but sweet, dizzying relief at the ability to touch and be touched, to be hugged and held and _heard_, oh dear sweet God he could hear her now--

Thank God she remembered him.

Curse God for leaving the memory of teeth buried in her wrist, for the memory of sensory deprivation after, for the inability to remember how to do something so deeply entwined in any living thing, for making her forget how to _breathe_\--

...thank God for Wilson. He'd saved her again. An invisible debt that grew bigger, a debt she'd never tell him for fear of being taken advantage of, but one she would make damn sure she paid forward. She wouldn't forget his many kindnesses. Not now, not ever.

* * *

"Why do you care so much what he does with her?" Charlie asks one day, peering over Maxwells shoulder at the magically contrived view.

The inside of a tent, the scientist fellow sprawled out on his back, snoring. And curled up against him was that huntress girl, her arms wrapped around him. 

Maxwell scowled but said nothing, willing the view away. He didn't have to give an answer to her, she didn't need to know his inner thoughts on the matter.

But she could guess. Charlie was nobody's fool and had seen enough of his little viewing windows in the past month and observed plenty up above to piece together a theory or two.

A suspicion snuck through Charlie's mind. He could tell from the sky look that came over, poorly disguised as innocent curiosity (A fox trying to gain access to a clutch of helpless hens). She chuckled, moving to face the man on the throne directly. "You're jealous, aren't you? You took a fancy to that pretty little thing and now," she willed the view back with a wave of her hand, pushing it gleefully into Maxwells face as he blushed and looked away. 

He could see the triumph in her eyes and realized he was caught. He hadn't been as careful as he should have been--

"And now Wilson is making a move on her."

Maxwell opened his mouth to protest, paused, then scoffed. "As if I have any interest in that sick little thing." 

After the resurrection, Wilde's body had reset to how it was when the magician had tricked her into the Constant. Only now she was just a little bit weaker, a little bit thinner, sanity hanging by a thread and threatening to fray to nothing.

Charlie stuttered, caught off guard... he could practically _see_ the thoughts running through her head (if not the girl... then why was Maxwell getting so worked up over this...?)

"Then what? You wanted her to stab him? The kids' not half as paranoid or mad as you made her out to me before."

Another true thing. From scant observations of her, the huntress was quick to distrust strangers and wasn't shy to fight back should she suspect someone was trying to hurt her. She was suspicious, constantly looking for deception, lies and tricks, wary of traps, and yet... sye trusted Wilson shockingly quickly.

Maxwell only chuckled and lit a cigar, choosing to leave Charlie to her own imaginings for now. Eventually, she grew bored and left.

The magician breathed a sigh of relief; she had been close, but she hadn't quite hit the nail on the head. He wasn't jealous of Wilson. He was... jealous of that girl. Of the easy, close bond she had formed with the scientist... how they touched and nuzzled and shared a bed without a second thought, without a word. It was maddening. This had not been among his plans at all...

Maxwell then scowled at the "window", catching movement from the corner of his eyes. 

Higgsbury was whimpering in his sleep and Wilde had been roused by the noise and the mans uneasy movements. She sat up, rubbing at her eye, and turned to the scientist. Gently, she wiped away his tears and brushed her hand through his hair in small, uncertain-then-certain movements. She hummed softly, swaying softly with her eyes gently shut.

Higgsbury opened his eyes just as Wilde opened her mouth, and began to sing.

"Come little children, I'll take thee away, into a land of enchantment. Come little children, the times come to play. Here in my garden of shadows."

A voice that was sweet and dipped deeper than anticipated, before swinging into notes high and abrupt that Wilde caught herself off guard and hurried to correct herself. It was full of emotion, beckoning and cajoling and brimming with gentle calm and reassurance.

"Follow sweet children, I'll show thee the way, through all the pain and the sorrows. Weep not poor children, for life is this way, murdering beauty and passion.

"Hush now dear children, it must be this way, too weary of life, and deception. Rest now my children, for soon we'll away, into the calm and the quiet."

She dissolved into soft crooning, sustaining the melody as she swayed gently side to side. Tears slipped from closed eyelids, but she continued singing that damn song, fingers finding the scientists and holding fast.

Maxwell felt his mouth twist unhappily, observing the way Higgsbury relaxed to the loving lilt of the huntress' song, her gentle touches that wiped away any trace of tears from tired eyes. It all lit a fire in his gut, an angry roiling mess of emotions, chiefly jealousy--nonono, he wasn't jealous, he was _pissed off_ because Wilde wasn't meant to be a source of comfort, she was meant to he one of anxiety and conflict, not all, all _this_!!

"Come little children, I'll take thee away, into a land of enchantment. Come little children, the times come to play, here in my garden of shadows."

She finished with an eerie lilting of croons and soft calls, bringing the song to a quiet close. 

Higgsbury snored peacefully at her side, his nightmares lulled away by her lullaby and comforting presence. 

It infuriated Maxwell, the way she curled into the scientist's so casually, so easily, as though she'd known him her entire life. As though she _loved_ him. 

The thought entangled Maxwells mind and he growled, willing the window away, hands clenching into fists. 

This wouldn't do... this wouldn't do at all!

He would have to do something about all this... something to force one to reject the other...

A conniving grin spread over Maxwells face and he chuckled darkly. Oh, he knew _exactly_ what to do.


	6. My Past, oh how it haunts me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up kiddos, this is a long one! Be prepared for long conversations, delirium, confessions and death! Hahahahaha!
> 
> (<s>Maxwell why must you self-sabotage yourself like this--</s>)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reality and dreams are tied closer than they seem... how else could a mortal man become the Nightmare King?...

"What did it feel like? To be a... ghost?"

Winifred looked up, catching the wince on the final word before comprehending the question. She chewed on her lip, focusing on the wood in her hands, knife gliding over the long, limber branch in smooth, measured motions. 

"Sensory deprivation. I couldn't feel anything or touch anything unless I concentrated. Memory... not loss but... repression? I suppose? I could barely remember my name and everything before... 'waking up' in the clearing was blank. I didn't... remember you, but where Maxwell left a bad feeling in me, you evoked... better feelings. I could hear your voice, but I could never make out what you were saying. And... my words couldn't reach you, except when..."

She stopped, tasting blood in her mouth. She wiped at her bitten lip, then rubbed the back of her hand on the side of her pants. Her tongue licked over the spot, but quickly retreated from the cold.

"You seemed agitated with me. But also concerned." Wilson fills in the blanks, his gaze settling on her an odd, but not uncomfortable weight.

Definitely better thsn the presence looming with uncanny malice at her back. She itched to look, to ease her growing anxiety, but reassured herself that if she ignored it if would go away, and if there was a real threat, Wilson would have warned her already. The monsters of her mind held no power of her, not unless she gave up her own to them.

"....? Winifred?"

"Hmm?" She jerked her head up, hands stilling. "Sorry, missed that. What was the question?" She met his gaze across the fire, head tilting just slightly. Wilsons' beard had grown out over the course of her ghost-ness, threatening to trip him soon if he wasn't careful, but it was warm and not nearly as scratchy as she had first presumed. 

"I asked if you remembered saving me from the Grue. Or giving me your poncho." He repeats, eyes slanted with concern.

Winifred shuddered and hid it as a shiver, chewing her lip, teeth gumming on cold-numbed flesh. "Vaguely, at best." She admits after thinking about it for a minute. "I mostly remember the exhaustion following... I didn't want _sleep_ so much as... I needed rest. I expended a lot of energy all at once, I think, and after..."

Blood ran fresh down her chin and she realized a moment too late to hide it. She pressed her sleeve to the spot, unable to truly feel the pain with how numb her skin was by now, and felt more than heard Wilson change seats and settle beside her. She let him tilt her chin and remove her hand, fretting over her a moment before deciding she was alright. She caught his hand and squeezed it, a reassurance that went both ways.

"...I remember waking up to... pounding. A drumbeat in my chest. My chest was on fire. When you... brought me back I'd... forgotten what a heartbeat felt like. I'd..." her breath hitched, the memory twisting around her chest and squeezing cruelly. "I forgot how to breathe." She whispers, horrified and fearful.

Wilson immediately drew her into a hug, curling under the poncho with her to share the two-part warmth of his embrace. She curled into him, stifling a sob in his vest. Winifred let her mouth warm in the tiny pocket created between her face and his torso, then withdrew, sniffling and wiping at her eyes before the frost-flecked air cut into the watery tracks created.

"It's... its alright. You're back now." Wilson comforts her, squeezing her carefully. 

"...I need you to show me how to make the resurrection thing." He jolts against her, surprised. "Thinj about it. Odds are..." she swallowed against the lump that formed suddenly in her throat. "Odds are, either one of us could die out here. Knowing how to bring ourselves back from the dead is s useful skill to have, methinks."

Slowly, Wilson nodded against her, silently agreeing that he would teach her. "Tomorrow." He promises, pulling away slowly. "Its getting dark... I'll make us some dinner."

Winifred nodded, shivering as the poncho pulled free and let the cold snake in. She wrapped herself up tight, then hesitantly poked her hands out, working by waning light to finish her bow. Eventually, however, she had to set her project aside, the firelight too weak to work by reliably. She tucked it away in a chest, threw some fresh wood on the fire, and snagged Bulby from the tent before settling close to the fire. 

Mere days after her resurrection, and already things had settled back into a sort of normal. The hunger clawing at her stomach and dusty exhaustion in her lungs were all too familiar. Coupled by the weight of physical labor cementing her bones after each days work, and Winifred felt like she was going to collapse. Despite Wilsons' insistence that she rest, that he could handle things while she recovered, she insisted right back that she was fine, that she could pull her own weight and help around camp.

Truth of the matter was, she'd learned months ago to keep walking, even when she felt like collapsing. Keep moving, keep moving, or else she would fall and be unable to rise. And then she would...

Winifred shook her head, dismissing her wandering thoughts as the sun vanished and darkness set in.

Wilson brought her a bowl of stew and they sat together in companionable silence as they ate.

After a few minutes Wilson asks,

"...why do you... talk to it?"

Winifred paused, slowly lowering her spoon, "Huh?"

The scientist glanced at her briefly, then refocused on tthe bowl he was balancing precariously in his lap, almost purposefully avoiding her gaze.

"The... toy. 'Bulby'. Why do you speak to it?"

"Oh..." Winifred sat back, a hand going to the small teal creature in her lap. She considered how to answer, trying to find some way to justify the presence of the plant-frog. "Sometimes... I grow too anxious. Its easier to soothe my anxiety if I pretend its housed in a seperate entity. So I wind up pushing my anxiety and fear onto Bulby and in soothing them, I soothe myself. That, and... habit I guess. I was... alone a long enough time. Having a companion was... helpful."

Wilson nodded slowly, mulling over her words. "And the... agitation you show when I touch its eyes in particular the other day?"

Winifred gave an involuntary shudder. "I don't like things near my eyes..."

"So you projected that dislike onto Bulby." He concludes. Wilson regarded her quietly, eyes shifting down towards her lap.

She paused, realizing her hands were no longer on bowl and spoon, but on Bulby, rubbing anxious, relieving circles into the creatures hide. Winifred ceased her actions, and felt soft twitches erupt over her body as protest. Small movements that were aborted as soon as they began, directionless need for distraction-in-movement. It would grow into pacing and growling soon, she knew. But she still wasn't sure what Wilson would think of her. And the more she tried to stop the small twitches the more they inflicted themselves upon her, tic's she couldn't control intensifying at the thought or mention of them.

"Are you alright? Winifred?" Wilson was by her side then, a hand on her shoulder, concern in his voice and eyes and touch.

She shut her eyes tight, drawing in a deep, biting breath of frigid air, held it, then released it again. Her fingers worked into soft, worn fabric, and the rest of her stilled, a sort of relief washing over her.

"I'm alright." Winifred pulled in another breath, braced herself, then asked, "What is your opinion on autism?"

Silence. Then, "What?" 

She looked up, to find Wilson staring at her with a mixture of confusion and concern. There was no malice or disgust, but he seemed terribly uncertain of how to respond. "Winifred, is... this one of your made up words?"

Winifred let out a huff of agitation. "No, its not." At the same time she felt a modicum of relief. She could teach him, surely, if he was unaware of the term.

"Its a... condition of the brain. It's not damaged or defective, it's simply wired differently from other people's. I- well, I don't speak for all folks with autism, only myself, because there's a whole pool of symptoms to draw from, so to speak. And I don't remember all of mine either. But it is why I tend to make animal sounds and bare my teeth and the like. It also leaves me with sensory issues, though I haven't been suffering from much out here- less people I suppose, less noise, too. It can make it harder to focus on a conversation, and then there's the tic's--"

"N-now hold on..." Wilson interrupts, brows furrowed as he tried to match up what she was telling him to the behavior he'd observed in her. "So this is a mental condition? How early does it show? Its signs? Is there a cure or way to ease its symptoms? Is there anything that can be done to prevent it? Is it genetic or environmental in origin?"

Her mind only caught on 'is there a cure'. Winifred felt her lips curl into a snarl, but stifled her urge to snap at him. He didn't know, _he didn't know_, he was simply curious and seeking answers, that's what Wilson did, even if it nearly killed him ten times over as he dived headfirst into danger over and over again 'in the name of silence!' like the kindly, intelligent fool he was.

"There's no cure." Her words held a venom she hadn't intended, and she amended her statement quickly, "There's no cure but it's hardly a dangerous thing. Now ask your questions again, one at a time. ...please."

Wilson slowly nodded, and thus the questioning began. 

"Is it genetic or environmental? What causes it?"

"Genetics, I think. You can inherit it, but hitting your head won't cause you to spontaneously get it."

"How early can it be detected?"

"As early as two years old."

"How do physicians diagnose it? What signs do they look for, I mean."

"Uhhh--not sure. Its something with... abnormal behavior? We can be socially withdrawn, but they have removed that as being a major symptom. Its... take what I'm saying with a grain of salt, but we cam be obsessed with a particular thing, and excel with that thing. And it could be anything; math, music, dolls, toy cars, horses, writing--"

"Anything?"

"Anything. And sensory issues are an early symptom too, I believe. Sound or touch or sight being overwhelming."

"Is there anything that... helps?"

"Well... I used to take a medication. I forgot how exactly it helped, but on it I could focus and stay focused. Now my mind wanders easily and it's harder to keep my impulsive thoughts at bay."

"...what kind of impulsive thoughts?" He asks carefully.

She breathed out a soft sigh, right eye wincing shut as a crumbling log in the fire caused a flare of brightness, the pain an ache that slowly faded. "Anything from 'throw Bulby across camp' to 'punch Wilson in the face' to 'stab yourself in the gut'. They're as intrusive as they are impulsive... I can't fully ignore them, at times. I come up with compromises instead."

He touched her shoulder after a moment, giving a gentle squeeze before pressing his side to hers, arm wrapped around her back. "What kind of compromises?" He doesn't quite whisper, but his voice is hushed, soft as though anything too loud would break her or set her off.

"I'll throw a snowball or a rock, pat you on the shoulder, just..." She sighed softly, leaning into his touch when he ran gentle fingers over her scalp. "Little misdirections. The energy of the thought wants to get out, but I know when to fight off such thoughts. I know they're impulsive, and that makes it easier to ignore or give in."

"You shouldn't give in to such things--" he began ro lecture, but there was concern there too.

Winifred cut him off, "Impulses also include jumping up and running about pretending I'm a bird for my own amusement. It's not all doom and gloom, Wilson."

"...when you speak of hurting yourself, I can't help but feel concerned." He answers quietly, worried for her.

Winifred felt her chest tighten. But the words came before her brain could catch up,

"I don't want to at all, is the thing. The thoughts come and they scare me, and I do what I can to distract myself or banish them. I'm... relieved at your concern, in a way..." a soft chuckle escaped her, high and squeaking and relieved. The fire cast glancing shadows, half-formed silhouettes of monsters with glaring white eyes. "Figured if I told anyone I'd be tossed in the looney bin. My meds helped I suppose but without them out here, my thoughts run rampant."

Wilson tightened his grip on her, speaking seriously, "You're not crazy, Winifred."

She huffed a laugh. "We defined crazy as doing the same thing over and over agajn, but expecting different results. Punch a tree, your knuckles bleed. Punch it again, expecting the tree to fall, but all you get is more blood and maybe broken bones."

"... 'we'? Who's 'we'?"

She stilled, air catching in her lungs. Her hands gripped Bulby, rubbing soothing circles into the soft fabric. Tears pricked her eyes as her heart constricted painfully tight and she buried her face in the animals stomach, hiding herself and fighting off sobs. Winifred didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to think about those she lost, those she could never get back. Letting herself remember her loss would bring everything crashing down on her and any attempts of escape would be forgotten, (<strike>for what is the point of escape if there's no one to return to, no home waiting at the end of so long a trial...?</strike>)

Gentle hands on her shoulders, turning her and drawing her into a warm, solid embrace. Winifred lowered Bulby slightly and curled into Wilson, still hiding from everything, but in quite a different manner. Let him hold her, soothe her, fighting for her words as she struggled to calm down.

"...I-I don't want to say." She whispers, burying her face into Wilson's vest. "Please don't make me, Wilson..." she finished, voice muffled.

She felt the scientist tense, hands stilling on her back as his embrace tightened. After a moment, he answered slowly, softly, "I won't force you to tell me anything, Winifred." He rubbed soothing circles in her back, the words whispered into her hair. "I promise."

Winifred wrapped her arms around him, muffling the sobs that forced themselves from her throat, letting her grief spill over for the first time in months. It hurt, a deep, lasting ache in her heart, but... 

As Wilson rubbed soothing circles in her back and gently murmured comforts to her... comfort without context, without pressing the matter... offering compassion and kindness to her... Winifred felt like she might be okay.

* * *

_The smoke, bitter and clinging, brought back a confusing slur of memories._

_A garage that stunk of cigarettes, a pool table, a distant man that spoke on the phone and ignored her. A woman with brilliantly bright hair, smoking outside a car in an abandoned lot, sharing a drag with a man who stunk of alcohol and had too loud a voice. A tall man in a suit, holding out his hand, offering her a deal..._

_Of the three, the last brought with it a grudge and anger. She whirled on the magician, snarling like a wild beast. _

_"The fuck do you want?" She demanded, standing tall and unafraid before Maxwell, teeth bared and sharp._

_"Nothing. Nothing yet, at least, pal." He took a long drag and blew it in her face as he walked closer, and took her chin in his hands, "You haven't held up your end of the deal very well, now have you?"_

_Winifred tried to squirm free, in the process lifting up her foot and kicking the man hard in the crotch. He doubled over with a wheeze and she jumped him, fingers digging into his hair and knee swinging up wildly, crashing into his face, coming away bloodied. _

_And then the person changed, no longer Maxwell but someone else, someone she knew and then she was apologising rapid-fire, but they ignored her, crying and others came then, comforting the other she cared for, ignoring her entirely. She tried to touch them but they slipped through her hands like smoke, her apologies and pleading falling on deaf ears as silence rang out louder and louder in her ears but it wasn't a ringing it was a harsh pounding. Then she realized others, strangers, were staring at her, asking if she was alright and Winifred felt like she'd been hit head-on by a freight train as she realized that the Others, those she loved, couldn't be seen by anyone but herself, they weren't there, they weren't there, they weren't there--_

_Nothing but ghosts. Nothing but intangible, taunting figments of her imagination. She couldn't trust her own mind as she drowned in grief and the knowing that there was nothing she could do._

_Bitter smoke at her ear, a voice whispering to her as invisible hands grabbed her shoulders. She tried to pry herself away and felt pain lance through her arm, stealing her breath away. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and the voices whispered and whispered and whispered until there was nothing but white noise and empty pavement and an empty house full of a sweet sweet poison in the form of cherished memories tainted by blood and tears and broken bones--_

_Pressure, arms holding her tightly from behind, restraining but not painfully so, and Winifred realized she was gasping for air, realized she wasn't alone. Words whispered at her ear, a frantic, pleading voice repeating her name and reassurances, promises, that she was **safe**, that it was _just a dream_, that she **wasn't alone**, that whatever she saw _wasn't real_, **Winifred**__, wake up, wake up, _**Wake Up**_\--_

Winifred jolted back to consciousness, her flailing falling short as she panted, dazed. Her heart was trying to claw out of her ribcage and she was gasping for air like a drowning man. Her face was wet with tears, vision blurred in the soft darkness of the tent.

Wilson was holding her tightly from behind, his chest to her back, arms locked around her in what was equal parts a hug and a restraint. She turned her head slightly, trying to meet his gaze, still struggling to breathe, to put together what was wrong, to find the words to speak with at all.

"Are you with me now?" He asks, worry creasing his forehead. 

She mumbled out what was roughly a 'yes', more sound than words. 

"You were crying and flailing about. Almost brought the tent down on top of us." He explained briefly, projecting calm, loosening his grasp. His fingers were warm on her forehead and she was so cold... she leaned into him with a relieved sigh, and whined when he withdrew his hand. "She's feverish... what I wouldn't give for modern medicine...!"

She whined louder when he pulled his body away from hers, but didn't fight him when he pushed her down into the blankets and curled up beside her. Winifred nuzzled into his side and held tight, sighing contently when he ran his fingers through her hair. 

"We'll be alright... " he breathed. A certainty twisted from worried hope.

* * *

Winifred was ill again. Though he hadn't noticed initially, the process of death and resurrection had weakened her. The huntress was too-thin, lacked energy, hands shaking from cold and exhaustion. But her firm assertions that she was alright, that she could handle herself and knew her limits had persuaded Wilson that she was fine. That she could grow stronger and recover... two things that were virtually impossible without food or rest, of which she was depriving herself the latter. 

When Winifred had collapsed while they were out checking the snares, Wilson realised his mistake. He should have insisted on giving her a checkup, on making sure she was alright, rather than simply let medical procedure slide. After a frantic few minutes where the scientist had checked her vitals after she'd collapsed, he realized she had worked herself into exhaustion, and wound up sick because her body's systems weren't strong enough to fight off whatever sickness had claimed her. 

With Winifred held secure in his arms, Wilson made his way back to camp. He settled her in the tent, making her as comfortable as possible, then reluctantly left camp in search of wood for the dwindling fire. 

Come evening, he returned, rekindled the fire, and checked in on Winifred. She hadn't moved since he'd left, so after confirming she was breathing he went about fixing supper for the both of them. He coaxed her to eat a little, and bedded down with her for the night. She didn't cuddle up to him as usual, but despite a sense of vague disappointment, Wilskn found himself unsurprised. She was exhausted through and through and was completely out. 

Wilson decided not to disturb her overmuch, settling under the blankets with his back pressed firmly against hers. A scant few hours later, he was awoken by the sudden lack of warmth and pressure, accompanied by a fearful keening.

He sat up quickly, finding that Winifred was struggling to stand, flailing at some indivisible foe.

"Winifred!" He cried, leaping to his feet and catching her by the wrist. She recoiled, clutching the appendage with a broken wail. Her eyes were half-lidded, glazed over with confusion and pain. Wilson realized quickly that she was delirious or trapped in a nightmare (both, in all likelihood), and moved to pull her back down, grunting when her elbow buried itself in his ribs. He tussled with her briefly, fighting to keep her kneeling before him, lest she rise and attack him or break their tent. 

Her muscles quivered with exhaustion when she finally ceased her struggle, collapsing against Wilson. He continued to hold her, whispering to her that it wasn't real, that she was dreaming, pleading for her to wake up...

She turned to gaze at him after a few minutes of this, eyes red and watery, and not entirely rid of their glassy sheen.

"Are you with me now?" He recieved a soft affirmative sound, head dropping to her chest. Wilson loosened his grasp, but let her keen on him as he checked get forehead. Not that he needed too: heat radiated through her clothes. "You were crying and flailing about. Almost brought the tent down on top of us."

He withdrew his hand, murmuring to himself, "She's feverish... what I wouldn't give for modern medicine...!" Wilson shook his head, trying to get himself hack on track. The huntress was calmer now but still out of it.

Gently, he coaxed her to lay back down with him, brushing away whined protests with soft words and gentle touches.

Winifred eventually calmed and curled up at Wilson's side again, making soft complaint about the cold. The scientist checked her temperature again despite the futility of the gesture, chewing on his lip. He turned the movement into brushing fingers through her long hair, doing what he could to comfort her, shushing her as she whined softly.

"We'll be alright... " Wilson sighed, a reassurance for himself as much as it was for the girl in his arms. 

Finally, she began to drift off again, curled against him in a desperate attempt to get warm despite her high fever. Wilson didn't have the heart to push her away, bringing his arms around her in gentle embrace.

"Sleep, Winifred. It's alright. You're safe." He coaxed, noting her tremors and pinched expression. "I'm here. Everything's alright."

"...night, Wils'n... love you..." she murmurs, finally going lax in his hold, asleep.

Wilson stiffened, stunned by the huntress' words. Quite frankly, he was baffled. They were... they were hardly a couple, afterall! Nothing romantic had happened between them at all!

But then again... she was always touching him, nuzzling against his shoulder or grabbing his hand to pull him along, or give a reassuring squeeze. Not to mention how they snuggled together each night, despite the days growing warmer with the oncoming spring. They didn't strictly need to share blankets or a bed anymore, and yet...

So, it was a distinct possibility that she loved him, and her fever had let slip that fact.

However, these were not feelings that Wilson reciprocated! He cared for her, most definitely, but he had no interest in her romantically or s-sexually. He valued her as a partner in their endeavors for survival, and cared for her deeply as a friend and companion. Nothing more, and nothing less.

But... how to go about telling her this without breaking her heart? He bit his lip, gaze skittering down to her peaceful features a moment before focusing on the wall again. He didn't want to drive her away from camp, or make her feel unwanted. He simply didn't feel the same way towards her. He would have to just tell her... and hopefully things would work out...

Hopefully. 

* * *

The sudden onset of s blizzard blindsided Higgsbury; the intense, biting winds cut through even the warmest of his clothes, the poor visibility made it nearly impossible to walk from one end of camp to the other without getting lost, and worst of all, they were running low on supplies. Before long the wood would run out and the shadows would claim them. Food was another concern, for it was Winifreds' traps that allowed them to reliably hunt fresh meat. No doubt the snares would all be buried beneath all the snow. 

When Higgsbury risked leaving camp in search of fuel and food, he became hopelessly lost within the hour. A pity, too; he had managed to procure wood, though food remained elusive. But as he traveled further and further from his camp, the promise of hypothermia sinking into his flesh to grip his bones, another danger was stalking the camp.

Wilde, too weakened by the sickness that raged through her body to even leave the tent, had no hope of surviving the encounter with the Deerclops. The monster, specially (and recently) created by Maxwell, destroyed everything in its path. Tearing through the flimsy cloth of the tent, it made short of the girl, too delirious from fever to recognize the threat until she was being skewered by its claws. 

Hardly an hour later, and Higgsbury succumbed to the cold, curled up under a tree in a vain attempt to keep the wind off.

In the end... Maxwells plan had worked spectacularly. The storm didn't claim the scientist, not just yet, and Maxwell felt a twinge of guilt that he quickly smothered by impatience.

He didn't wish harm on Higgsbury, not anymore. These twisted games of survival had been entertaining, once upon a time, but once his... growing feelings for Higgsbury made themselves known with all the subtly of a freight train, he remembered a time Before.

Freshly imprisoned, he had fought and struggled for freedom... but in time he grew exhausted of it, fell still in the throne, uncaring of Them or what They intended to do with him... until They revealed that others didn't need the Codex Umbra to gain access to the Constant... and that anyone could be bound to the Board, and become King.

Obsessed with the thought of freedom from the Throne and the Constant, Maxwell coaxed and tricked and bribed others into this twisted world, saying anything that would get them to agree, promises made that he never intended nor could ever fulfill. He seeded out clues, hints of Other places in the Constant, laying down the groundwork for any who were strong or smart or resourceful enough to put the puzzle together and find the Nightmare Throne.

He practised a meaningful speech to give to the lucky survivor who found him, with or without the Dowsing Rod. Reveal the presence of Them, explain a fragment of Their involvement, and say that the Dowsing Rod could free him, a survivor just like them...

...but he wouldn't say that whoever freed him was really switching places. They didn't need to know, and would figure it out pretty quickly... but not until it was too late for them to back out.

In the meantime, Maxwell made the Constant hell for Their amusement, to keep them sated. Made the summers cook the survivors (the pawns on the chessboard) alive, while winters chilled them to their cores. The monsters conjured from his own mind, the world written in with new rules that defied any known laws of his own.

Forcing the survivors to live over and over with no memory of their past experiences had been a real hit with Them. It had never occurred to the blood thirsty demons to trap pawns and puppets in time loops, giving rise to continued entertainment without needing to worry about the pawn dyingsand requiring replacement. 

Plucking Wilde up and dropping her into Higgsbury's loop had been an interesting little experiment. From what he'd been able to observe and glean from the young woman, he had predicted that she would show huge amounts hostility and paranoia of the scientist. He had predicted that she would attack him or steal hisresources, looking out for herself. But that was not the case...

So, Maxwell had sought to break up their little... "lovebird" display by forcing the loop to reset by any means possible. 

And once it restarted... well, let's just say he would make sure they never fell for one another again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...but why is such a powerful man the most protected piece on the board...? Unless...
> 
> <s>_...even a pawn can ascend to power... even a pawn holds more power than the King... a Pawn is expendable where the King is not; always, must there be a King on the board..._</s>
> 
> <s></s>  
__  
**...Otherwise There Is No Game To Play...**  
  

> 
> <s></s>  
__  
**AND A WORLD WITHOUT GAMES IS BORING!?!**  
  



	7. I just can't shake this sense of dejavu, by any chance, do I know you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dozens of deaths and collective years of time, Maxwell finally admits defeat; no matter what he does or says, the outcome winds up the same; Wilson and Winifred secure a close bond with one another (the times they dont go insane and murder one another that is).
> 
> But following a surprising discovery and chilling realization, Maxwell decides its time for a very different course of action... and a perhaps a change (or reveal) of heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A light that wanes and waxes and grows ever-more-powerful. A darkness that hungers for the very thing that makes it weaker, stronger, weaker, stronger. Belief makes the nightmares real and dreams cannot enter this forsaken place (can they?).

"Why are you fighting so hard to live, when there's nowhere for you to escape to?"

Wilson paused, then changed direction mid-pace, moving as quietly through the trees as he could. That voice... it sounded like the man over his radio... Maxwell...?

Peering through the trees at a small clearing, Wilson tensed, quickly processing what he was seeing. 

A young woman, crying silently. One leg was tucked beneath her; the other was outstretched before her, hurt, bloodied, twisted wrong. She was clutching one wrist tight to her chest, gaze downcast, refusing or unable to acknowledge the man looming over her:

Maxwell, standing over her, leering, forceful, a snarl on his features. The man over the radio, the king of this place, capable of turning this world on its head if he so chose.

The both of them were surrounded by dead hounds, sticks bound by feathers jutting from the throats and flanks and chests of the beasts. A bow made of flexible wood and spidersilk was abandoned at the girls side.

"Why keep fighting it? Why not just give in, and rest?" Maxwell continued, a little gentler than before, abandoning his threatening visage. "You have nothing to return to. No friends, no family, not even a loving pet. Not out there, at least anymore. Just give yourself up to me; close your eyes, and relax. It'll be like falling asleep. It won't hurt."

Wilson felt unease creep in, and slowly moved closer, determined to help, or if nothing else, figure out what was going on. It sounded awfully like the girl was dying, and Maxwell was trying to offer comfort. But something felt plain wrong about it, something about Maxwells tone, his words... something that hinted at a way to escape the Constant... and that implied that there was no way out for this woman in particular. That death was kinder due to the circumstance of the world she'd left behind.

The woman intoned a soft string of words, words the scientist couldn't catch, but Maxwell let out an exasperated sigh, growing weary of this.

"I'm trying to make this easier on you. If you keep fighting things will only grow worse from here. I cannot guarantee that you won't suffer in the future when They come to take you."

'They'? Who was 'They'? Wilson was missing something here... there was something going on here, something he couldn't quite explain, but he was going to get to the bottom of it--

A harsh growl had Wilson freezing in place, but a quick glance revealed the source to be the woman. Her teeth were drawn back in a snarl, eyes flashing and glaring furiously. Despite the pain and helplessness of her current predicament, there was an aura of danger hanging about her, of strength, drawn to the surface by Maxwells unspoken ultimatum.

"I will not," she snapped, forcing the words out and straining against the pain of her broken leg, leaning over her legs to bare her teeth at Maxwell, "--be bullied into submission by some liar like you. You've lied before. You've no way of proving this isn't another lie, _bastard_."

Maxwell watched her with a weary frown , allowing the woman to rise without comment. She wasn't quite standing, her weight leaned heavily against a tree as her injured leg hung as deadweight, but she was upright and glaring daggers at the so-called deciever. 

But what had Maxwell lied about...? Had he offered the woman something, then failed to deliver? Wilson knew he had been tricked here, but there must obviously be a way out... but from the sound of it, even if this particular woman escaped the Constant, she would be returning to an empty house...

"You're not making this any easier for either of us." Maxwell sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sounded tired, worn, so unlike the usual arrogant and snide attitude that the man wore. "I am trying to offer you a kindness. I cannot promise how painless your passing will be if you continue to fight me on this."

The woman narrowed her eyes, jaw tightening as a hand tugged a knife free from her belt. It flashed silver in the dimming light as she turned it over, hidden from Maxwell's line of sight.

Wilson froze in his hiding place, thin body tucked behind a betry bish at the clearings edge, jaw dropping in his shock. She wasn't going to... try to kill Maxwell, was she? The scientist wanted to shout a warning; he wanted to see what would happen. He was still turning Maxwells words over in his head, the woman's defiance weighed against it, still struggling to piece together what was being offered, and what Maxwell had lied about before. But things carried on faster than he had anticipated, leaving him a spectator to the following events.

The woman's lips moved with silent words, face a mask of concentration, eyes wide and manic and intense. Her eyes flared gold, practically glowing in the low light, and she lunged at Maxwell with a scream. Her little knife was suddenly a sword as long as Wilson's forearm, glowing as golden as her eyes. Her strike missed it's true target, bad leg buckling under her, but she managed to graze Maxwells arm as she went down hard.

The king stumbled back, letting out a yelp of surprise, clutching his arm. Blood seeped between his fingers, pain registering as he raised his bloodied glove to his face. Maxwells jaw dropped, and he stared down at the woman, who had dropped the sword in favor of curling around her bad leg, keening and weeping not-so-silently into the needles and dirt. 

Lips drawing back in a snarl of rage, Maxwell lashed out with a vicious kick to the woman's side, sending her rolling against the grass. She cried out, sobbing when Maxwell kicked her again, hissing hateful words under his breath.

Wilson rushed out before Maxwell could strike again, befire he had even thought of intervening, stomach sick from it all, all the emotions churning in his gut and heart clenching. This wasn't right, this wasn't just. He couldn't allow this man that he... he had feelings for hurt someone else so helpless. It wasn't right and his poor heart _couldn't take it_\--

"Stop! Just stop!" Wilson put himself between Maxwell and the girl, holding out his arms to shield her. Maxwell froze, caught off guard, eyes widening with shock. Wilson continued, quieter, "She's had more than enough. Stop hurting her."

Maxwell grimaced but backed down, his grip tightening on his arm. "Fine." He bites out, glaring behind the scientist, at the woman who continued to cry. "Have fun being the knight in shining armour once again, Higgsbury. I doubt your damsel will be so grateful, however." The king vanished in a puff of dark smoke, leaving his words for Wilson to decipher on his own. 

The scientist breathed out a long sigh, rubbing the side of his face. "Maxwell..." Wilson breathed, then, put his own swirling mess of emotions aside for now, turning to face the woman. 

She was curled on her side, arms drawn to her chest. Her leg was still bleeding, and she looked deathly pale. Wilson would need to act fast to save her. Gently, he reached to pull her over onto her back. However, as soon as he made contact with her, she whipped over with a snarl, and pain arched through Wilson's arm. 

He pulled away with a cry, clutching his bleeding arm. The woman snarled, the knife in her hand flickering, mirage-like, from a small blade to a mighty sword. Her eyes glowed weakly, madness clinging to her as she swiped furiously, adrenaline and a dead mans desperation spurring her forward. Her silver blade missed when she lunged for the scientist; the golden sword connected; and blood rose to Wilson's lips, sticking and bubbling in his throat.

Neither of them lasted many minutes more... dying alone, side by side, of their wounds...

* * *

Stumbling through the growing, threatening twilight, fleeing the shadows touch, Wilson was fighting a losing battle against panic. Lost, turned around, no idea where his main camp was, no supplies to build a torch or light a fire... he was in a bad spot, and it was about to get so much worse--

Wilson spotted light out of the corner of his eye and lurched toward it, far too desperate to even _think_ to consider the implications of firelight settled so far from familiar territory. All that mattered was the flickering net of safety he could see between the birchnut trees.

Stumbling to a halt within a small clearing, the scientist looked around. There was a simple fire pit dug in the ground, ringed by stones. The ground had been stripped bare of plants in a radius of about two feet around it. A stack of wood lay nearby, tucked against the base of a tree.

He called out tentatively but there was no answer. He settled by the fire, sighing in relief as his chilled body warmed. He was safe from the Grue and the growing nights chill. Now all he had to worry about was food, and finding his way havk tomorrow...

A rustling of branches over head... he looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of wary eyes before the arrow embedded itself in his shoulder.

Wilson fell back with a cry of pain, hand grasping at his shoulder, but he didn't remove the arrow just yet. He knew better than to do so without a way to stem the inevitable rush of blood that would come upon removal.

"Consider that a warning." A woman's voice snaps from the branches overhead, "I'll give ya twenty seconds to tell me who you are and why the hell you're here, or else the next arrow is going straight between your eyes."

"W-Wilson P. Higgsbury, m-ma'am! I-I was seeking safety for the night and happened upon your fire--"

A sharp, animalistic snarl left the woman's throat, cutting the scientist off. "Not my fire. _Here_. The island." 

His gaze fell, chewing on his lip. "A voice on the radio promised me secret knowledge, but it was a trap. I built a machine that wound up transporting me here." 

A moments silence, then a noise of disbelief. "Some stranger promises you 'knowledge' and you just... go with it? Without even asking what they want in return?"

She phrased it as though she believed Wilson was an idiot. Heat rose to his face and he muttered, "He didn't ask anything of me. It was freely given."

There was a rustle of leaves and cloth, then a solid thump. "Hardly free; look what your 'knowledge' has cost you... damned to hell, damned to fear and pain and loneliness."

Wilson looked up, meeting the curious, distrustful gaze of a young woman, her dark hair contrasting pale features, eyes reflecting the fire like the sunset on the sea. Her clothes were little more than pajamas, a big white blanket pulled tight about her shoulders as a makeshift cloak. She met his gaze evenly, but a brief flash of metal in her hands reminded him immediately and viscerally that, oh yeah, she _bloody shot him_! 

"But he tricked you nonetheless..." she continues, ignorant of his inner thoughts. "Tricked us both... and the enemy of my enemy is a friend--" She reached out, flicking the arrow still embedded in Wilson's shoulder. The man yelped with pain and she added, "--So long as you don't pull any funny business."

Wilson scowled at her, but nodded. He hardly approved of her little 'greeting', blood still oozing sluggishly between his fingers. But she did have a point; they might as well work together since they were both trapped here. He would have to keep his guard up, however...

"Fine." He agreed tersely. He then gestured to his shoulder with his chin. "Do you have any bandages?"

She nodded, turned, and scrambled back up into the tree. There was some cursing, a rustle of fabric, and she jumped back down, landing in an easy crouch. Bundled in her arms was a roll of spidersilk, woven into long, thin strips, a few spider glands, and a small rabbit skin sack stuffed with... something.

"Sit." She jerked her chin towards a nearby tree.

Wilson hesitantly sat down, back dragging against the trunk. The adrenaline in his system was finally wearing off, and he grit his teeth, hissing out a pained breath as he jostled his shoulder.

"Do you... have medical training?"

Her lips quirked up into something resembling a grin, but it wasn't cruel despite some amusement glimmering in her eyes. "No."

She set her bundles down, smile falling as she arranged them neatly, then pulled something else from beneath that cloak of hers. A bundle of silk thread and a single curved needle, resembling a fishhook without any barbs. This she laid carefully on the rabbit skin bag. She pulled two more items from beneath her cloak; a leather pouch that was bulging with water, and a wad of unidentified leather.

"Nothing formal. But enough to know what to do here." She clarifies, her voice conveying calm reassurance. Not that it wound up being very reassuring at all, an undertone of anxiety eating away at her words like acid against a bridge.

'Nothing formal' could mean any number of things. Maybe her father was a doctor and had taught her how to patch folks up. Or she could be some lunatic that carved up bodies for entertainment. Considering she shot him on sight yet was clearly aware of Maxwell and the Kings traps and tricks was fairly telling of her current mental state. Then again, she wasn't gibbering or flinching at shadows and nonexistent but very dangerous hallucinations... so her sanity may yet be intact--

Fingers snapped in front of his face and Wilson suddenly refocused. She met his gaze briefly then looked pointedly at his vest and shirt. 

"Gonna have to cut some of it off." She states simply, and Wilson balked.

"Can't I simply remove my shirt and things?" He asks. His clothes were a last remnant of civilization, a tie back to his world. He didn't wish to lose them or have them cut to pieces if it could be avoided.

"No. Its caught by the arrow. You're lucky that it's only wood; I'm still working on stone heads and they pierce deeper, sharper, and leave a much larger hole behind." She paused, considering something. "You're smart enough to leave it in rather than pull it out, actually. Other idiots just yank it out, not realizing the blood comes gushing out all at once."

Wilson gulped, uncomfortable on multiple levels now. "And you know all this... how??"

She snorts. "I don't get why most others are unaware; it's just common sense. Now take off the shirt." 

The abrupt command startled Wilson, and he opened and closed his mouth several times before relenting with a distinct grimace. He shifted, managing to unbutton his vest, but when he tried to shrug it off, it tugged at the wound and embedded arrow, pain radiating in white-hot flashes of disturbed nerve endings. He slumped back against the tree, gasping for breath.

"Don't fight me, or this could turn ugly fast." The words were his only warning before cool metal touched the skin of his neck. Wilson tensed, but the sharp edge never pierces his flesh. It carefully cut his sleeve from his shirt, and with the hole left behind cut at the collar, his shirt and then his vest was easily pulled away.

He breathed, relief crashing over him as soon as the blade was tucked away again. Wilson felt a note of anxiety and discomfort as her gaze flicked over his bare chest, but she only huffed softly, muttering about "bones" before looking up, meeting his gaze. 

He opened his mouth to ask her to hurry this along, which was the opportunity the woman took to stuff the wad of leather into his mouth. He gagged and tried to spit it out, but she held it there, a soft, deep growl rumbling from her, warning and discontent in one.

"Bite down on it. I have to pull the arrow out. It's going to hurt. Biting will help with the pain, and should, hopefully, muffle your cries. Smaller chance of drawing the monsters."

He nodded, clenched his teeth around the leather, then turned his head away, eyes shut tight. He felt her fingers brace against his flesh and a jolt of pain as she grasped the arrow's shaft. He felt and heard her breath draw in and puff out, readying herself...

Pain struck like a lightning bolt and Wilson clamped his teeth down on the leather in his mouth as a scream tore through his throat, tears pricking his eyes. A firm touch to the middle of his chest kept him pinned, kept him grounded against the onslaught as fresh pain layered over old, icy splashes of water joining the jittering flashes of thunder that rolled through his shoulder and through the rest of him, paralyzing him.

A soft stream of words registered in his ears--the woman, speaking quiet and low and with an undertone of panic, her hand warm against his chest, even as the other washed out the wound and slathered it in stinging medicine. Then that steady presence on his ribcage pulled away, and the hard point of a bone-needle pierced the edge of his wound and _pulled_, sharp gliding agony as the string slid through the puncture and he screamed, straining and fighting to get away from the overwhelming pain on pure instinct.

Wilson was slammed back into the tree roughly, head knocking up against the trunk and teeth clacking awfully against one another. Something was weighing him down, sat on his legs and pressing, digging sharply into his chest, pinning him thoroughly against the unyielding wood. Wilson tried to struggle again and a low growl met his ears and a sting of pain worked it's way through his bleeding shoulder. A sob bubbled up from his throat, but the pain didn't cease, stinging-tugging-pulling around his injured shoulder and it was too much, too much, _too much_\--

Awareness trickled in with the light of midday, warm and blinding. His back ached from the position he was in, leaned against a tree with his feet spread towards a dead firepit. Wilson tried to move, to push his arms under him so he could stand, mind already working to piece together what happened the night before, but his right shoulder flared with agony and he cried out, the world darkening at the edges. He came to slumped against the tree, a dark presence silhouetted against the sun standing over him. 

Against any logic his sleep- and pain-addled brain could have supplied him with, Wilson immediately swung out with his other arm, shouting in fear at a believed hallucination. The creature gave a very human cry of pain and fell back, scrabbling away.

No longer dark against the light, but encased in it, Wilson could see it was the woman of the other evening. Just as suddenly he remembered that she had shot him with a makeshift bow and arrow and turned to look at his shoulder--

His shoulder was neatly bandaged by spidersilk cloth, a larger patch held tight by loops going around his chest and arm. Wilson looked up at the woman, who was cradling her face, one eye shut tight while the other watched him, worry and wariness fighting for dominance on her face. Her cloak was gone, and with it the aura of largeness and power she'd subconsciously held over him the night before. Her clothes hung loose on her, too big or rather she was too small, too thin, wracked by hunger for days, possibly weeks just like he was.

And Wilson felt a sort of guilt, eating away at his gut when he realized her cloak, a white blanket stained by blood, was wrapped around him (or maybe it was just the hunger. He hadn't eaten for a time, afterall. He didn't want to be feeling guilt for someone who had caused him injury).

"Are you with me Willy?" She asked suddenly, slowly inching closer. She was skittish, prepared to dart away should Wilson show any signs of trying to hit her again. 

He couldn't help the slight frown that formed at the nickname, "Its Wilson." He corrected.

She paused, surprised, turning the name over, then nodded. "Thought so... was right on the tip of my tongue." She stopped, hands lowering to reveal a forming bruise on her left cheek, dark against her pale skin. Her right eye remained screwed shut. Her gaze flicked from the ground to his face, eye contact fleeting. She adds, "Sorry. I don't like to misremember names. And 'sir' and 'mister' felt far too... casual. Formal." Her shoulder rose in a half-shrug, gaze skittering from his face to the ground again.

Wilson held his silence, trying to equate this nervous woman with the powerful, put-together one of the night before, but his mind was struggling with it. It was such an about face, but it rubbed him the wrong way. He couldn't explain it easily, but he didn't sense any deceit from her either.

"Well, if you know my name, isn't it only fair that I should learn yours? Calling you 'Miss' would he far too formal, after all." He asks, taking on a sarcastic tone on the final line of words.

The woman didn't pick up on it at all, just nodded hesitantly and said, "Winifred."

Wilson lifted a brow. "Winifred no-last-name?" He asks, hums, considers. He didn't expect the following reaction. A laugh, a reply of a last name maybe, not... not what followed:

Her eye hardened into a glare and turned downwards, frame tensing, the simple not-question setting something off in her. "Never give your full name. First and last, offer a nickname instead, _never_ speak your middle name." Winifred spoke with a strange urgency, frustration and fear and anxiety stirring up in her voice like a boiling over pot of stew as she continued, "The fae, the witches, the others will take it and use it, twist it to themselves and twist it against you. Make your life hell." Manic laughter bubbled up, mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "Make your life miserable, so long as you are at their mercy." The laughter twisted into an almost-sob and she covered her mouth, rocking slightly on her heels with both eyes shut tight. 

Wilson stared, heart sinking. This young woman was well and truly mad, afterall. Fae? Witches? Giving out a name couldn't be half so harmful as she seemed to believe.

"All rubbish." he says aloud, gritting his teeth against the pain as he slowly levered himself to his feet. "Names can't hold power over us. Not in the manner that you're implying, Winifred." He ignored her little fit, refusing to address it. If he addressed it in any way it meant she would keep doing it, keep vying for his attention in such an unhealthy and socially inappropriate manner.

She blinked at him, jaw working silently. Something dark passed over her features, a bone-deep exhaustion. Whatever bout of hysteria that had overtaken her had evaporated. "I shouldn't have expected someone like you to understand." She intoned the words flatly, gaze lowering to the ground. 

Winifred straightened from her crouch, keening softly. She stretched out her arms, tensed and straightened out her spine, then stretched and twisted her legs, one at a time. A strange, well-practised ritual. She looked at him, then, head cocking to the side. Her gaze shifted noticeably to his shoulder and she bit her lip.

"Is it... are you alright?" She asks, concern genuine. 

Wilson hesitantly rotated his right shoulder, hissed as pain flashed through him uncomfortably, blindingly. Blinking past blurry spots and trying to regain his footing against the surge of dizziness, he realized there was a presence at his side. An arm wrapped around his bare back, grasping his arm, helping remain on his feet. 

Winifred blinked up at him, brows furrowed together and guilt sticking in the cracks of her concern.

"You good?" She asked simply.

Wilson felt the urge to laugh, inexplicably. A strange woman in a strange world where everything was turned on its head. Sure, he'd learned plenty about this world and how to survive, studied the strange anomalies with a curiosity-driven fervor, all in the name of scientific discovery. But this woman... she was an anomaly in and of herself. Constantly changing, shifting, one thing and then another, and Wilson was too hurt and hungry to get a proper handle on her, on how to handle her at all, to keep her from possibly attacking him again.

"I'm good." He responded after a moment, and she nodded, slowly releasing him. He shivered as the bare skin of her arm dragged across his back briefly, then her fingers loosed their grip on his good arm and withdrew. He found himself briefly, stupidly missing the contact, missing any human contact. He shook his head, scowling slightly. He had been alone far longer, with very few troubles regarding the desire to be around other humans. There was no need to go blubbering insensiblely about her no longer touching him.

She stepped back, opened her mouth as though to say something, then stopped as realization struck her. Winifred made an about face, stooping to grab something off the ground before rushing back over to him.

In her hands was his shirt and vest. The blood had been washed out for the most part and the holes made the night before were neatly sewn shut with spidersilk. Wilson slowly reached out to take the articles, mind ticking one way, then the other. His things were still slightly damp. The stitch work was only distinguishable on the vest, were the thread was black instead of spidersilk-white, made in neat little rows.

Winifred couldn't have accomplished this so... swiftly, could she? Washed and fixed his damaged clothes? But she clearly had, the evidence was right in front of his face, indisputable. And she'd thought to do it as well... thought to fix his things and give them back... to give her blanket to him... these were hardly the acts of an irrational, deranged lunatic. 

She said something and he missed it, as wrapped up in his thoughts as he was. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

Her features shifted to an almost-smile, before twitching back to a mixture of guilt, shame, and apologetic concern. "I said 'I'm sorry'. For shooting you last night. I was... scared." The admission came quietly but no less sincere, averting her gaze from his.

And Wilson was really, truly, terribly unprepared for this dynamo of anxiety, kindness and potential lethality that hung about this young woman, but he decided that making amends and teaming up as agreed the night before would be in his better interests in terms of survival. So, she was a little eccentric and had issues managing her anxiety, Winifred seemed like she was trying to do well by herself and by Wilson as well. He smiled at her, reached out to tip her chin up to meet his gaze--

In a flash she was grasping his hand in both of hers, twisting and maneuvering his wrist in a painful manner, eking a yelp from him--

And she let go just as suddenly, pulling away, a low, venomous, panicked hiss coming from her mouth as she backed away a few paces, arms tucked against her chest as a shield and a way of self-comfort.

"I'm sorry." she got out, panicking, "Its a reflex. I saw movement and thought--I'm sorry."

Wilson slowly flexed his wrist, letting out a pained huff, but nothing seemed broken or damaged. It was simply sore. The way she had done it... the grip, the twist... she knew how the body worked and functioned. How to make it break and bend wrong. How to patch it back together. Not contradictions by any means, but a fluid skillset, self defense and medicine, knowing how something broke and how it mended becoming one and the same.

"It's alright." Wilson replies, gently as he can. "I startled you." Both today and last night, he adds silently. "I'm not angry with you." He adds as an afterthought. 

She looked up at him, uncertain. He smiled reassuringly, slowly offering his hand to her. "We agreed to work together yes?" A slow nod. "Then how about we start over? A clean slate."

She hesitated, then nodded, taking his hand.

And Wilson knew, or hoped he knew, what he was getting himself into. This easily frightened, anxious woman had survived out here likely _because_ of her anxiety, fighting off hounds and starvation all on her own. Perhaps together, things could become easier. And perhaps in time, they could come to trust one another more readily. And become something like friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and yet They would invite such a predator directly into Their den... and yet the mice believed they could kill a cat that lay dying in the streets. But a single small act of kindness can bring one from deaths door... and cats are known for their multiple lives.


	8. Dreams Versus Nightmares (Dejavu Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I split the original "dejavu" chapter in two. It was getting too long, felt like I was stuffing too much into it all at once. Here's the continuation!
> 
> Alternate title: Dejavu, electric boogaloo
> 
> EDIT: Done! Fixed up the last scene. Chapter is complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite a rough start, Winifred and Wilson seem to finally be getting along. Wilson is biding his time until he is well enough to return to his own camp, but the huntress is an anomaly that he can't help but become fascinated by.
> 
> A surprise visit from Maxwell brings old, long-buried feelings to the surface and kindles a newfound determination to get free from this hellhole...

While Wilson recovered from his injury, Winifred took charge of looking after him, acting as though he had always been apart of her ramshackle camp. Each morning before she set out, armed with her bow and a sheathe of arrows, she would check on him, make sure he wasn't in pain and that his wounds weren't infected. Despite Wilson's insistence that he could handle himself and the caretaking of his wounds, Winifred always argued and insisted right back. And in the end, Wilson had little other choice than to obey, as the woman kept all of her supplies squirreled away up in the tree she rested in at night.

After assuring Wilson's needs were attended to Winifred left, returning like clockwork sometime in the late evening, her bag filled with wood and grass and other odds and ends she found, dead rabbits strung along a makeshift belt of rope. She would spend the rest of the daylight hours chatting with Wilson as she skinned the rabbits, stretching the pelts along frames of wood and putting the meat aside for their dinner later. 

She managed to catch food so consistently that most evenings they could fill their stomachs and have some meat leftover for the morrow. It was impressive, especially so since there were never any wounds on the rabbits, their necks snapped cleanly. 

When Wilson asked her about, she grinned and explained her snare traps; ropes tying down saplings, a loose circle that would pull taut the moment the bait was taken, the rabbit slung up high in the air to prevent any other predators from taking it. They hadn't worked initially, she adds with a soft pout. It had taken a lot of tweaking, trial and error, to get them to work as she intended. 

It explained why she was so thin when they first met, scarecrow thin and sharp edges and a gaunt face. Afraid of being poisoned by the bright red berries and unknown mushrooms, she had only given in when there was no other option, when hunger gnawed at the very core of her being and desperation obscured any logical reasoning. 

The scientist understood that hesitancy, and eventual breakdown of willpower. It was either starve or die of poisonous flora, and in the end they had each taken a chance and cone out alive, none the worse for wear.

Wilson taught her what he knew of this world, describing the effects of the various mushrooms, the uses of honey and spider glands as medicine, and many more useful tidbits. And when she asked more of him, honest curiosity arose as he spoke of the science machine and alchemy engine at his camp. Winifred asked more questions of him, some about science and some about the Constant, listening intently as he spoke.

It was nice, I Wilson decided, to have a dedicated audience listen and ask questions about his work, his discoveries. To hear her speak, Winifred had been barely getting by in this world, but she was stubbornly, miraculously alive, even with the utter lack of proper tools or any other supplies around her "camp".

The huntress--as Winifred so liked to claim herself as, full of childish (yet endearing) enthusiasm--had been making due without an axe or pickaxe to gather wood or stone or metals, killing the monsters and hounds from afar with her handmade bow and arrow. Or when things became dicey and too close-range for her comfort, she resorted to her knife, the blade holding many a use. She didn't have any sort of farm set up, but paid meticulous care to her surroundings, frequenting berry bushes and nearby spiders dens, while avoiding the more dangerous areas, such as where a few Tallbirds were nesting nearby.

All this and more was revealed to Wilson through Winifreds ramblings. The woman seemed to hold an oceans worth of thoughts and ideas and words, and after so long alone was eager to share them with the only other person in sight. The majority of what she chose to share, however, were fairytales and other made up stories. The young woman was fascinated by magic and other related elements, often rambling on about a story she was making up before switching gears halfway through to explain how the magic worked or functioned differently as opposed to some earlier tale that Wilson had already forgotten or lost track of.

The notion of magic was hardly scientific, but he didn't say as such. Winifred spoke with a great amount of passion for her stories, and they seemed to offer her a reprieve after a long day spent hunting and foraging. Similarly to how Wilson took comfort in science, the inventing and the discovery of it all, no doubt.

All the while, Wilson noted other little... quirks, of Winifreds.

Every night, after they'd both eaten and she'd bolstered the fire with her collection of branches, she'd haul herself up into the tree to sleep. That wasn't the strange part; resting in a tree was actually a fairly decent strategy, keeping her away from the monsters that roamed below the branches. The strange part was the mutters and murmurs Wilson would catch, Winifreds voice drifting down with an array of comforts, worries, fears, and reassurances. It sounded like she was talking to someone, and it certainly wasn't him! But he couldn't figure it out just by listening in, and his shoulder was still too hurt to allow him to climb up and investigate while Winifred was away.

Another, more concerning little quirk was the way she shut her right eye all the time. She would cover it with her hand at times, or simply close it. That eye was functional, Wilson was sure, but something stirred pain or discomfort in her, especially with bright light. Winifred didn't seem to suffer from a lack of depth perception with her eye closed, but he had a sneaking suspicion that she required glasses of some kind. She often squinted and grimaced at her surroundings, especially when she would peer beyond the borders of camp at some unexpected noise or another. 

Her anxiety, as Wilson had discovered, was funny like that. She would stiffen and slowly turn, her breathing itself muted as she tried to locate the source of the noise. She'd twitch her head one way, then another like a particularly aggravated mouse, and if Wilson tried to say anything or did anything that made too much noise she shushed him with a hushed but urgent, "_Quiet!_" And soft hissing.

She made a whole itinerary of strange noises, animal like in nature, but more disturbingly she seemed to hardly realize she was making them most of the time. She meowed and keened to herself as she worked, stitching together rabbit skins to form a blanket or a bedroll. Trilled and grumbled as she struggled to tie feathers onto a freshly prepared branch, the items slipping through the bindings. Hissed and snarled in discomfort as hot fat dripped on her hands while roasting their rabbits over the fire, shoulders hunched to her neck but otherwise forgoing any form of complaint. 

There were a lot of questions that Wilson desired answers for, but he was still considering how to go about asking them, and when. He was going to wait until his shoulder was better, at least. He didn't want to try and have to fight his way back to his camp with no supplies should she choose to chase him off or, Edison forbid, attack him.

He wasn't so sure he believed that last thought of his. Winifred was turning out to be quite compassionate, more often than not putting Wilson's comfort above her own. She gave him her cloak most nights, checked his wound and insisted upon replacing the bandages daily, and whenever there wasn't enough food to fill their bellies--which was, admittedly, rare--she always tried to give him the larger portion. He felt more than a sliver of guilt, now, watching Winifred prepare to head out again. Here she was, about to go and gather supplies for them both, and all Wilson could do was sit around and twiddle his thumbs. 

He wanted to do something, something helpful preferably, but just being able to do something at all would help ease the itching under his skin, the crawling need to be working on a project of some kind.

"Could you get anymore spidersilk or grass?" 

She looked up at him, startled, and Wilson realized that he'd blurted the words out aloud. Then his cheeks reddened with embarrassment as he realized exactly what he said, how ungentlemanly it was of him, and that she was mouthing his words to herself, turning them over in her head.

"I-it's only that, I've been feeling pretty useless and you've done so much to help me, but I'm used to working on things--"

Then she smiled and nodded, cutting him off, "I'll do my best. Meanwhile," she dropped her bag and scrambled into her tree. After a minute or so of rummaging she dropped back down, a spidersilk bag stuffed to the brim with rabbit pelts. 

Wilson's jaw dropped as she dropped it at his side, a smaller bag set on top of it. "Why have you been hoarding this away?" He asks, stunned.

She paused, considering, then shrugged. "Dunno. Was saving them up. Because I couldn't think of a use but figured they could be used for _something_." Winifred pointed to the smaller bag. "But here's your project. You can sew these together for us."

Wilson nodded, pulling pelts out of the bag and taking stock of how many there were, and how much spidersilk thread there was. Then he thought to ask, "What should I make?"

She smiled and shrugged, "Make whatever you think will help." With these parting words she took off into the trees.

Wilson smiled slightly, and got to work, sorting through what all he had and calculating what could be made of it, and what would be more useful. First things first, he wanted a bedroll... they could both use one, that's for certain...

* * *

She returned battered, in the late evening the following day, bearing the skull of a child in her arms.

Throughout that time, Wilson had sewn together bedrolls, blankets, and spare articles of clothing for the both of them. He did his best not to worry overmuch; maybe the spiders nests she was visiting were farther away than he had initially thought. He wanted, desperately, to believe she hadn't abandoned him or died...

But no, she returned the next evening, the shadows stretching long and encompassing against the tiny circle of firelight. In her arms was something small and round and white, but at the time he ignored it, relieved she was alright. 

"Winifred! You're back!" Wilson stood, reached out to her, paused when she ignored him, drawing her knife from her belt. The scientist took a step back when she snarled, and looked over her more closely in the dying light of day.

Dark bags hung under her eyes, eyes red and face marked by tears. She was limping, fresh blood oozed from her shoulder, and what flesh was visible in the growing twilight was layered with bruises, scrapes and cuts. But her stance and face showed no pain, only fear and a grim amount of determination. Her breaths came in sharp pants, eyes shifting and tracking something unseen in the darkness.

Had she been chased by something? It seemed the most likely conclusion. It appeared that she hadn't gotten any rest this past day, either. But now, back in the relative safety of the camp, Winifred was still on high alert.

"Winifred," Wilson tries again, softer, slowly reaching out to touch her uninured shoulder. She twitched under his hand, head tilting the slightest bit at his voice, but she didn't tear her gaze from the darkness. "Winifred, its alright. You're safe now."

At his gentle insistence, something shifted in her features: first disbelief, then a frightening sort of madness as she grinned at him, wild and manic as she giggled and nearly sobbed.

"Hardly." She giggled weakly, approaching the darkness with slow movements. "The monsters approach..." she paused, turned to look back at Wilson, worry creasing her brow. She gestured towards the tree she usually slept in. "Go under the tree. The sigils will protect you from the shadows."

Wilson stared at her, uncertain, and she huffed, agitated, and marched up to him, thrusting the white thing into his hands. "Go!"

He swiftly complied, for fear of setting her off, fumbling and nearly dropping the foreign object. He glanced at the sigil when he was close enough, brushing his fingers over the mark carved into the wood. A canine of some kind, sitting inside a circle ringed by triangles, almost like a pup within a sun. He had asked her about it, once, and she had anxiously brushed it off as "her sign". He had thought she meant it was a sign of her presence, a sign that this was her camp. But now... he wasn't so certain. 

And it clicked, quite suddenly, that Winifred's sanity was too low, that she was seeing and hearing the demon-like monsters that slipped into reality when ones sanity slipped and dropped.

She was muttering to herself, body trembling as the adrenaline in her system ran itself out. Then, unexpectedly, Winifred screamed,

"I'm not afraid of you fuckers!!" 

Winifred rocked back and forth on her heels, swaying, hand tightening into a fist before the fingers stretched wide, over and over. She brandished her knife, a threat, a warning (a _promise_), angled out at the darkness.

"You want me?! Huh?! Motherfuckers!! Then come and get me!! Bastards!! _Bastards!! Fucking cowards!! Face me directly you fucking bitches!!_"

Wilson felt himself flushing at the callous use of such unladylike language, but what made his jaw drop was the way her knife... changed. One moment it was normal, the next it transmogrified into a glowing gold sword, the blade as long as his forearm and glinting sharply. It glowed in the darkness, casting light beyond the circle of firelight...

And flickering, shifting, as real as smoke and mirrors, was one of Them. The shadows given form, the monsters that hunted after those beset by madness.

The demon shifted closer, its image wavering, and Winifred bared her teeth, gnashed them together and snarled out a challenge, leveling her golden sword at the creature. 

It hesitated for but a moment... then lunged. Winifred jumped back, startled, but she swung her blade before her in an arc. It connected; the demon recoiled, writhing in pain, and Winifred straightened, something triumphant and relieved in her features. She lifted her blade, angled it point down, and plunged it into the demons head; the golden blade cut through the shadows with ease; the demon stiffened and turned into nothing but whisps of dark, oily smoke, drifting away. Nightmare fuel sizzled against the blades edge, dripping and evaporating and behaving in a very unfamiliar way. 

Winifred heaved a breath, steadied herself, then stood, brandishing her blade threateningly at the darkness.

"You'd better fuck off! Or you'll end up like them!" She pointed sharply at the spot where the shadow had died, staring intensely into the darkness for several seconds. 

Wilson didn't dare breathe, straining his ears despite himself, trying to discern whether or not more were coming. But after a few minutes of nothing, Winifred sagged, the tension bleeding from her body. Then, she turned to face Wilson, and he froze, limbs locking in place; her eyes were a solid gold, burning like the sun, furious and fearful and vengeful and concerned all in one, drilling into his very soul. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could do nothing but hold her gaze--

And he remembered that blade in her hand tearing into him, ripping him open, like dejavu, like a nightmare or a dream. Remembered her manic laughter and biting fear and harsh words. Remembered dying by her hand.... remembered it viscerally, a dozen deaths layered over one another in a dizzying, nauseating rush of sensation and memory--

Then, Winifred wavered and her knees buckled. The sword fell from her hands, fading into her silver blade as the golden light left her eyes. She slumped to the ground with a long, pained sigh, eyes slipping shut.

The spell broken, Wilson gasped for air and shook himself, rubbing his eyes to chest them of the wetness that had gathered there. And wondered why he had been so afraid of her. Wondered at the... the feeling of dejavu so strong it had almost... he shook himself again, dismissing the lingering sense of unease and fear. It hadn't been real. None of it had been. Already the strange not-memories were fading like fog in the sunlight.

Having collected himself, Wilson set down whatever was in his hands and hustled over, moving to kneel beside Winifred and assess her wounds. She jerked under his prodding fingers but didn't rouse. Concern bubbled up in his chest, but Wilson eventually determined that her wounds, mostly scrapes and cuts, were minor, and her failure to wake was simply due to exhaustion. 

Rolling out one of the bedrolls he had made the day before by the fire, Wilson hauled Winifred onto it. He took a moment to rub his aching shoulder, doing better but not fully healed, then fetched a blanket for her as well. Summer was coming to a close and autumn was setting in, with all its chills and cold and new hazards waiting out in the darkness and the daylight. 

Curiosity drew Wilson to pick up and more closely inspect what Winifred had handed him earlier. The feeling of bone beneath his fingers registered as he lifted the item up. A chill crawled down his spine. He slowly rotated the item, turning it towards the fire light. It was a skull. A human skull. A very small human skull... a childs' skull.

Children were trapped here. _Children_.

Horror choked at Wilson, shifting to hold the skull a little more carefully. He tried to take comfort in the fact that the child wasn't in pain anymore, that they were at peace, but he was not a terribly religious man. Hos prayers would lead to nowhere, ultimately. 

Where had Winifred found the skull in the first place?? Near the spiders dens? Or had she even gotten that far? Where had she been for the past two days?? She always, always returned by sunset, hurried and harried along by the ever-present threat the darkness posed. 

...all questions for tomorrow, Wilson supposed... he wouldn't rouse Winifred from her slumber in order to get to the bottom of this conundrum. For now, it would be best to get some rest, as well. 

Throwing some more wood on the fire, Wilson laid down on his own bedroll, back to Winifred and the fires warmth. It took him but a few minutes to drift off and fall asleep...

* * *

"Say, pal," a familiar voice broke through troubled dreams, rousing the gentleman scientist from his somewhat-peaceful slumber. "Wake up."

Wilson jerked awake, feeling something nudging his back insistently. He rolled over to look, and sat up in a flash, recognizing the tall silhouette standing over him.

"Maxwell??"

The man grinned down at the scientist, puffing on a cigar. "The one and only." The king of the Constant (the man that belonged to the voice on his radio) shifted into a sitting position, partially on Wilson's bedroll. The scientist scooted over slightly to make room, confused by Maxwells sudden visit. 

Wilson rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then looked again--nope, Maxwell was still there. Not a dream then...

"Nightmares." The king sighed, blowing out a trail of smoke. His gaze was settled on Winifred, the young woman muttering in her sleep and twisting fitfully on her bedroll, but not waking. "Dreams. All the same, ultimately. Memories that aren't real, or that we'd prefer to leave forgotten. A fantasy given form."

Wilson huffed out a breath, "Hardly scientific."

He was about to dive into the science of electrical impulses in the brain and the days memories being twisted by the mind into something false when one slept, but then Maxwell chuckled. The sound was tired, worn thin, and Wilson paused, and looked the man over. _Really_ looked.

Maxwell held an air of power and confidence to himself, of invulnerability, but now it seemed like little more than a mask. One that could be easily removed, or stripped away. He seemed tired, exhaustion lining his face, set in his eyes, the stiff way he held himself beside Wilson. Like the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders, and was finally threatening to be too much for him to bear.

"...are you alright?"

"I'm quite sure I dont understand what you mean, Higgsbury." Maxwell raised one brow at Wilson, bemused by the question.

And Wilson, uncertain how to respond but concerned nonetheless answered, "You look tired."

Maxwell appeared surprised for a split second before sighing, turning to face the fire more fully. "I am tired." he admits quietly. "I have been king for a long time. Higgsbury,--" he paused, an inflection on the Scientists name suggesting that Maxwell had more to say, but he didn't continue, falling quiet.

"...was there ever a Before for you?" Wilson asks, the silence stretching longer than he could bear.

Maxwell glanced at him, brows pulled low over his eyes, confused but not upset by the question. He nods, after a moment, taking a long drag of his cigar before answering, "Yeah, there was, pal." 

And Wilson considered this, then wondered, for a single, painful, bitter moment, why Maxwell had tricked him here, if the man had a Before, as well. What human being enjoyed the suffering of others, aside from some sort of heartless sociopath? And, oh, Wilson didn't want Maxwell to be one. Over the course of time it took to build the Machine that lead him to the Constant, the scientist had fallen in love with the voice on the radio. It was an infatuation that he struggled to rationalize and understand, but worst than not knowing _why_ he'd fallen for the man was the knowledge that Maxwell was responsible for all of Wilson's misery and struggles since coming here.

A large hand on his back, uncertain but solid, rubbing a soothing circle. "None of that, doll, don't cry. Man up!" The words were snide but the effort made to make them bite cruelly was hollow, thin, and seen through in an instant. 

An act, Wilson realizes, all an act. A farce meant to trick him. But now, he was seeing right through it all, unlike times before. As for why Maxwell thought it was necessary, he couldn't say. But, he rubbed the tears away--when had he started crying...?-- sniffling quietly as he got himself back under control. 

"Why?" He asks, continuing when Maxwells hand stilled on his back, "Why put me through all this torment--the harsh weather and the monsters and the hunger and the hounds--if you're human just like we are?"

The silence stretched long, and Wilson suddenly feared that he had over spoken, overstepped, and shut his eyes tight, turning his head away to further mute the sobs that threatened to choke him. He'd guessed and guessed wrong, and for the first time in a long time Wilson cursed his sense of curiosity and hunger for answers. But at the same time... being ignorant of this one thing would have been better than the painful truth. The sting of being wrong _hurt_, to learn the feelings he had was not for a human of his home world but instead for some sort of monstrous other-creature **_hurt_**, in ways he could hardly comprehend but had Wilson curling in on himself like a pill bug, hands raised to muffle his sobs.

"Hey, hey, calm down," large hands drew him close, and Wilsons breath caught when he was pulled against Maxwell's side, a long arm wrapped around his shoulders keeping him there. Cigar smoke and soft fabric pressed tight to the side of his face, held close in a warm, comforting embrace. Slowly, Wilson felt himself relaxing, feeling strangely safe within Maxwells embrace. He hadn't... been held like this in a long time, let alone by anyone his heart fancied so. It was nice... he pressed closer, shivering slightly as he realized just how cold the night had become and how warm Maxwell was.

Maxwell eventually began to speak again, voice soft against Wilson's hair, "...there is a lot I can't say, because of Them and Their influence on me. But here... near _her_," the man growled slightly, gesturing towards Winifred with a jerk of his head, "I can more easily get away with dropping a few hints."

Wilson didn't speak, _couldn't_ speak, still stunned that Maxwell had pulled him close, was practically hugging him, even! He didn't want to do anything that would spoil the moment, so he just nodded, settling in to listen for the moment.

The taller man breathed a long sigh into Wilson's hair, something sad and wistful to the sound, before he spoke, "_They_ are the demons that control this world. They crave entertainment and find nothing more entertaining than human suffering. They like to cause fear, instill madness, incite panic. It's little more than a game to Them, and we are the pieces on Their chessboard." Maxwell huffed out a breath, grip tightening briefly around Wilson before relaxing again.

Wilson swallowed, stealing his courage before asking, "Why are you telling me all this?" 

"As much as I hate to admit it, I am not all powerful, Higgsbury. They hold power over me, even as They allow me to alter Their world. I've never found entertainment in harming my fellow man, but They are... unimaginative when it comes to this world and its hazards. And..." Maxwell tensed, some unpleasant memory surfacing as he shuddered slightly. "...though I make myself out as the Puppet Master at times I'm still bound by Their strings. I've had little other choice than to do what They wanted."

And Maxwell seemed to be struggling to say more, unable to force the words out, and on impulse Wilson wrapped his arms around the taller man, giving a light squeeze. He wasn't sure what to say, but he finally said, "Its alright. Just say what you can." Maybe it was Their influence, tightening the strings on their puppet, preventing Maxwell from saying too much. 

Maxwell huffed out a sigh, the noise tinged by relief, continuing on, "...perhaps by fortune, as They had me hunt after new Pawns for the board... I found _her_. Miss Wilde." Maxwell gestured to Winifred when all Wilson did was stare blankly up at him, not comprehending who the king was referring to.

The realization had the Scientist doing a double take, reaffirming what he'd heard. Then, he realized what Maxwell was saying, and felt a frown form. "...why is she so important?"

Maxwell huffed out a breath, agitated and grateful simultaneously, "Hers is the power opposed to Theirs. Similar, in that she can warp reality to suit her needs. But opposite of what They are, of what They _do_. Her magics inspire calm and comfort, rather than feelings of intense fear and mania. I still do not understand why They allowed such a threat into Their den, but the fact that They want her removed from the Board is very telling..."

He paused, meeting Wilson's gaze, a clawing desperation in his eyes behind the air of serious calm Maxwell was trying so desperately to uphold. "She must he kept alive and her magic allowed to grow stronger. If They want her removed we must make damn sure she stays on the board."

Wilson frowned, turning this new information over in his head. Winifred was more of an anomaly than he had thought, but Maxwell was behaving strangely as well. But, he sensed no deceit from the man, only sincerity. 

"So... she could be the key to our escape? Or at least be able to stop Them in some capacity. "

"That is my belief, yes... weak as she is right now, Their influence bears less weight. I can... say more than I would be allowed normally." Notes of relief and novelty in Maxwells voice, nearly drowned by a more thoughtful, even tone.

"...is it her presence alone that counteracts them? Or something more? Her knife changed, earlier this evening, into a golden sword--"

Maxwell growled, aggravated and furious. The man shifted, clutching his arm with a hiss of old pain. Wilson tightened his hold on the taller man instinctively, wondering at this reaction, wondered if Winifred had taken a swing at Maxwell before, but he didn't dare voice his questions. Not when the taller was clearly distressed.

"...I do not know the full extent of her abilities, only what I've managed to observe. Nor do I know what toll it may take on her to use." Maxwell eventually replies, slowly relaxing in Wilson's arms. "What I do know is this: hers is a rare power in the world outside this one, these days. Few are born to it, fewer still are allowed to foster and practise it freely, without fear of prosecution. I cannot be sure how she came to learn of that Light she possesses, but it is likely the only thing that can free any of us from Them."

It felt like a riddle, and Wilson would have much preferred that Maxwell just explain things more clearly. But all the same... he'd already realized that Maxwell couldn't, whether out if fear of what They would do, or because They were directly smothering his words.

Maxwell shifted, suddenly, pulling away and turning to face Wilson, turning Wilson to face _him_, hands securely on his shoulders. 

"Listen closely. There are five things that, when put together will form a machine. A... gateway if you will. This will take you to the Adventure. Make it through that, and you'll find a way to freedom. And perhaps, with _her_ help... you can shortcut through to the End."

And there was something there, something Maxwell was hiding back, and the taller man was clearly struggling with something, tense and grimacing.

"...Maxwell?" Wilson asks, slowly reaching a hand to the other mans shoulder. He met the Kings gaze, and something seemed to fall into place. The scientist found himself pulled forward suddenly and without warning, his yelp muffled when cool lips pressed to his.

Wilson froze, eyes wide, heart fluttering and pounding, unable to comprehend what was happening. But by the time he had, his body had already reacted, hands entangling with Maxwells suit as he kissed him back. The scientist could barely believe that this was happening, that this was _real_. He wanted to pinch himself, but he refrained. If this was nothing more than a dream, he wanted it to last. 

When Maxwell finally pulled away, the both of them were flushed and panting for breath. Wilson felt something giddy and light tug at his chest, an immense relief making him feel weak. Maxwell returned his feelings, and it was an immense, overwhelming cascade of feelings, too many for him to sort through, and quite frankly he didn't want too. Wilson wanted to kiss him again, or curl close to Maxwell, to simply bask in this feeling forever. 

However, Maxwell pulled away, rather forcibly pulling Wilson's hands from his clothes. His expression was closed off but he couldn't hide his blush. Couldn't hide the regret and anger in his eyes.

And Wilson reached out for him, confused, hurt creeping in.

"Max--" The man disappeared without a word before Wilson's fingers could touch him, the King vanishing in a cloud of that dark smoke that signified his strange mode of transformation.

The scientist slowly touched his lips, remembering the feeling of Maxwell being there, pressed against him, breathing against him, and resisted the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry as he tried to sort out what had just happened. Why kiss him without warning only to leave so suddenly? Did he return Wilson's feelings or was Maxwell taunting him? Taunting him with something worse than the thought of freedom, but with the idea that Maxwell may... may l-l-lo--**_like_** him in turn? It was almost too cruel. As desperately as Wilson wished it was true, he forced himself to consider the distinct possibility that it was nothing but a cruel trick. 

As illogical as it was, the pain in his heart was too great; it felt like it had been broken in two.

Curling up on his bedroll, Wilson hid his face in his hands and sobbed.

**Author's Note:**

> First story of this fandom, still trying to learn all I can. Please let me know how I did!


End file.
